MEMORIES 


EIGHTY  YgARg 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/eightyyrsOOcros 


FANNY  CROSBY  IN  HER  EIGHTY-SIXTH  YEAR. 


MEMORIES 
EIGHTY  YEARS 

BY 

FANNY  J.  CROSBY 

(Mrs.  Alexander  VanAlsttne) 


THE  STORY  OF  HER  LIFE,  TOLD  BT  HERSELF 
ANCESTRY,  CHILDHOOD,  WOMANHOOD 
FRIENDSHIPS,  INCIDENTS  AND 
HISTORY  OF  HER  SONGS 
AND  HYMNS 


ILLUSTRATED 


JAMES    H.    EARLE    &    COMPANY 
BOSTON     MASSACHUSETTS 


Copyright,  1906 
By  MRS.   ALEXANDER    VANALSTYXE 


All  Rights  R«s$rved 


DEDICATION 

Go  Utile  book  with  many  a  prayer 
Go  on  thy  pinions  light  as  air 
The  story  and  the  life  portray 
Of  her  who  sends  thee  forth  to-day 
Go  little  book,  God's  goodness  tell 
Whose  praise  her  soul  enraptured  sings 
Who  gave  the  harp  she  loves  so  well 
And  in  her  childhood  tuned  the  strings 
Go,  little  book,  her  years  recall 
With  countless  friends  so  richly  blest 
She  murmurs  not  what' er  befall 
But  feels  the  power  of  perfect  rest 
Go,  little  book,  should  some  lone  heart 
Forget  in  thee  one  throb  of  pain 
Shouldst  thou  but  play  this  humble  part 
Thy  author  has  not  toiled  in  vain 


INTRODUCTORY  STATEMENT 

FOR  those  friends  and  acquaintances,  who 
have  expressed  a  wish  to  read  the  complete 
story  of  my  life,  from  my  childhood  to  the 
present  time,  I  have  undertaken  the  writing 
of  this  book.  By  including  even  some  incidents  that, 
in  themselves,  may  seem  trivial,  I  have  tried  to  make 
this  account  a  full  and  accurate  autobiography.  In 
modesty,  however,  I  have  also  desired  to  render  my 
story  as  simple  as  possible,  in  fact,  to  give  a  vivid  pic- 
ture of  my  work,  my  opinions  and  my  aspirations, 
not  only  as  a  teacher  but  also  as  a  writer  of  sacred 
songs;  and  if  I  have  spoken  with  a  frankness  that 
may  seem  akin  to  egotism,  I  hope  that  I  may  be 
pardoned;  for  I  am  fully  aware  of  the  immense  debt 
I  owe  to  those  nunberless  friends,  only  a  few  of  whom 
I  have  been  able  to  mention,  and  especially  to  that  dear 
Friend  of  us  all,  who  is  our  light  and  life. 

Throughout  the  pages  which  follow  I  have  availed 
myself  of  the  kind  assistance  of  several  persons;  and 
I  desire  to  acknowledge  here  especially  the  services 
of  the  Biglow  and  Main  Company  for  permission  to 
make  a  few  quotations  from  my  copyrighted  poems; 
to  J.  L.  B.  Sunderlin,  for  the  use  of  a  number  of  articles 
that  originally  appeared  in  the  "Albany  Railroader"; 
to  I.  Allan  Sankey,  Hubert  P.  Main;  Dr.  William  H. 
Doane  and  Mrs.  Mary  Upham  Currier,  for  corrections, 


INTRODUCTORY   STATEMENT 

suggestions  and  stories  of  the  hymns;  to  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Carrie  W.  Rider,  for  the  single-hearted  devotion  with 
which  she  has  aided  me  in  every  way  she  could  to  make 
this  story  of  my  life  all  that  a  loving  sister  would  wish 
it  to  be;  to  my  friend,  Miss  Eva  G.  Cleaveland,  who 
has  warmly  seconded  my  sister's  efforts;  and  to  my 
cousin,  William  Losee,  for  pictures  of  my  early  home 
and  its  surroundings. 

In  the  work  of  compiling,  copying  and  arranging 
this  book,  I  am  indebted  to  the  valuable  services  of 
H.  Adelbert  White.  Like  my  old  physician,  Dr.  J. 
W.  G.  Clements,  through  whose  generous  efforts  my 
first  book  of  poems  was  issued,  he  has  sacrificed  every 
other  consideration  and  patiently  devoted  himself  to 
my  interest.  This  he  has  done,  however,  as  a  gift  of 
friendship;  and  I  realize  that  this  book  never  would 
have  been  possible  without  his  assistance. 

But,  if  this  little  volume  shall  be  the  means  of  trans- 
mitting sunshine  into  any  life,  I  am  sure  that  all  those, 
who  have  so  generously  given  their  aid,  will  feel  abun- 
dantly rewarded.  For  myself,  it  is  a  rare  privilege 
and  pleasure  to  twine  the  blossoms  I  have  been  gathering 
in  the  garden  of  memory  along  the  journey  of  life  into 
a  wreath  which  must  forever  be  a  token  of  fellowship 
and  good  will. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

I  Flowers  that  Never  Fade         ...        -  9 

II  The  Training  of  the  Blind                 -  16 

III  First  Visit  to  New  York            ....  20 

IV  Early  Poetic  Training 32 

V  The  Promise  of  an  Education          ...  33 

VI  Inspiration  for  Work 48 

VII  The  Daily  Task                                  ...  57 

VIII  Summer  Vacations 65 

IX  Two  Addresses  before  Congress      ...  78 

X  A  Peerless  Trio  of  Public  Men  82 

XI  Contrasted  Events 91 

XII  Literary  and  Musical  Memories      ...  98 

XIII  A  Lesson  in  Self  Reliance                 -                 -  105 

XIV  Early  Songs  and  Hymns           -        -        -        -  111 
XV  The  Life  of  a  Hymn-Writer              -        -  117 

XVI  Two  Great  Evangelists    -----  126 

XVII  Other  Literary  and  Musical  Friendships           -  1S5 

XVIII  Work  Among  Missions 143 

XIX  Events  of  Recent  Years                             -  156 

XX  Incidents  of  Hymns         .....  ]66 

XXI  A  Few  Tributes       -        -  199 

XXII  Autobiographical  Poems  210 


CHAPTER  I 

FLOWERS  THAT  NEVER  FADE 

MANY  of  the  flowers  I  planted  in  the 
garden  of  memory  during  a  happy 
childhood  are  still  blooming  sweet  and 
fair  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  eighty 
years.  Those  that  are  somewhat  faded,  because  they 
have  not  recently  been  watered,  and  those  which  have 
been  crushed  in  the  press  of  a  long  and  busy  life,  I 
will  try  to  revive  until  I  have  finished  the  life  story 
that  I  am  about  to  tell.     Amid 

"Giant  rocks  and  hills  majestic, 
Sunny  glade  and  fertile  plain," 

as  one  of  my  own  poems  describes  the  surroundings 
among  which  I  was  reared,  these  blossoms  of  expectant 
youth,  some  of  them  frail  promises  of  future  harvests, 
were  gathered  in  the  good  old  town  of  Southeast,  Put- 
nam County,  New  York.  In  that  region  the  traveller, 
perhaps  to  a  greater  degree  than  the  inhabitant,  remem- 
bers the  country  as  one  of  wonderful  wildness  and  gran- 
deur. The  scenery  is  sublime  because  natural;  and 
more  majestic  than  any  handiwork  designed  by  man. 
During  the  summer  months  the  neighboring  hills  are 
studded  with  great  masses  of  foliage;  and  this  here  and 
there  is  touched  with  small  masses  of  gold  and  brown; 
and  in  winter  the  same  landscape  is  covered  over  with 

9 


10  MEMORIES   OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

—— ^—— wr af  »iij  >iini— — iim  iujwbmi^i— a—on 

spread  of  virgin  snow.  These  gracious  gifts  of  natural 
scenery  left  their  own  indelible  imprint  upon  my  mind; 
for,  although  I  was  deprived  of  sight  at  the  age  of  six 
weeks,  my  imagination  was  still  receptive  to  all  the 
influences  around  me;  and  the  surrounding  country, 
in  its  native  beauty,  was  real  enough  to  me;  in  one  sense, 
was  as  real  to  my  mind  as  to  the  minds  of  my  little  com- 
panions. At  least  the  inner  meaning  of  all  the  objects 
that  they  could  see  with  their  physical  vision,  to  my 
mental  sight  by  imagination  was  made  somewhat  more 
plain  than  may  be  supposed. 

Near  the  humble  cottage  in  which  I  lived  for  the 
first  few  years  of  my  childhood  ran  a  tiny  brook,  one 
of  the  branches  of  the  Croton  River;  and  the  music  cf 
its  waters  was  so  sweet  in  my  ears  that  I  fancied  it  was 
not  to  be  surpassed  by  any  of  the  grand  melodies  in 
the  great  world  beyond  our  little  valley.  During  pleasant 
summer  days  I  used  to  sit  on  a  large  rock,  over  which 
a  grape-vine  and  an  apple-tree  elapsed  hands  to  make  a 
bower  fit  indeed  for  any  race  of  fairies,  however  ethereal 
in  their  tastes.  The  voices  of  nature  enchanted  me; 
but  they  all  spoke  a  familiar  language.  Sometimes 
it  was  the  liquid  note  of  a  solitary  songster  at  eventide 
in  the  distant  woods;  or  the  industrious  hum  of  a  bee 
at  noon,  when  every  creature  but  himself  and  the  locusts 
was  sleeping  in  the  shade;  or  the  piping  of  a  cricket 
as  night  was  drawing  on ;  and  how  could  I  help  thinking, 
now  and  then,  that  the  fairies  themselves  were  bringing 
messages  directly  to  me?  In  childhood  the  tender 
language  of  the  heart  is  the  only  familiar  speech;  and 


FLOWERS  THAT  NEVER   FADE  11 

imagination  the  only  artist  of  the  beautiful  that  seems 
to  satisfy  the  childish  soul.  In  these  later  years,  there- 
fore, I  sometimes  drink  from  the  springs  whose  waters 
were  once  so  cool  and  inspiring,  and  then  I  often  think 
that  I  have  indeed  discovered  the  fountain  of  perpetual 
youth,  flowing  from  the  heart  of  nature. 

Of  the  family  of  my  father,  John  Crosby,  we  have 
unfortunately  little  record;  and  of  him  I  have  no  recol- 
lection, for  he  died  before  I  was  twelve  months  old. 
My  mother  came  of  a  very  hardy  race;  earnest  and 
devout  people;  noted  for  their  longevity.  She  herself 
lived  till  past  ninety-one;  and  her  great-grandmother 
attained  the  goodly  age  of  one  hundred  and  three 
years,  and  after  she  was  eighty-two  she  rode  from 
Putnam  County,  New  York,  to  Cape  Cod  and  back 
again,  through   the  half-cleared  wilderness. 

My  mother's  maiden  name  was  also  Crosby;  and 
her  line  traces  back  to  Simon  and  Ann  Crosby,  who 
came  to  Boston  in  1635  and  settled  across  the  Charles 
River  three  miles  from  town.  Simon  Crosby  was  one 
of  the  founders  of  Harvard  College ;  and  his  son  Thomas 
Crosby  graduated  from  that  institution  in  1653. 

My  great-grandfather,  Isaac  Crosby,  was  noted 
for  his  wit.  While  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  wishing 
a  furlough  that  he  might  visit  his  home  to  see  a  child 
born  during  his  absence,  he  told  his  general  that  he 
had  nineteen  children  ai  home  and  had  never  seen  one 
of  them.  Of  course  his  request  was  granted.  He 
was  the  son  of  Eleazer  Crosby  and  Patience  Freeman, 
the   grand-daughter  of  Elder  William   Brewster;  and 


13  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

through  Zachariah  Paddock,  another  ancestor  on  my 
mother's  side,  we  are  also  descended  from  Thomas 
Prence  and  Major  John  Freeman.  When  General 
Warren  was  killed  at  Bunker  Hill  it  was  a  Crosby,  I 
am  told,  who  caught  up  the  flag  as  it  fell  from  his  hands. 
Enoch  Crosby,  the  spy  of  the  Revolution,  was  a  cousin 
of  my  grandfather's;  and  I  have  always  read,  with  much 
interest,  the  account  of  him,  given  by  Cooper  in  his 
novel,  "The  Spy,"  where  he  passes  under  the  name  of 
Harvey  Birch.  This  daring  and  brave  patriot  sleeps 
near  one  of  the  charming  little  lakes  in  Putnam  County, 
not  many  miles  from  my  own  birthplace. 

My  grandmother  was  a  woman  of  exemplary  piety; 
and  from  her  I  learned  many  useful  and  abiding  lessons. 
She  was  a  firm  believer  in  prayer;  and,  when  I  was  very 
young,  taught  me  to  believe  that  our  Father  in  Heaven 
will  always  give  us  whatever  is  for  our  good ;  and  there- 
fore that  we  should  be  careful  not  to  ask  him  anything 
that  is  not  consistent  with  His  Holy  Will.  At  evening- 
time  she  used  to  call  me  to  her  dear  old  rocking  chair; 
then  we  would  kneel  down  together  and  repeat  some 
simple  petition.  Many  years  afterward  when  grand- 
mother had  departed  from  earth  and  the  rocking 
chair  had  passed  into  other  hands,  in  grateful  mem- 
ory, I  wrote  a  poem  entitled,  "Grandma's  Rocking 
Chair": 

"There  are  forms  that  flit  before  me, 
There  are  tones  I  yet  recall; 
But  the  voice  of  gentle  grandma 
I  remember  best  of  all. 


FLOWERS  THAT  NEVER  FADE  13 

"In  her  loving  arms  she  held  me, 
And  beneath  her  patient  care 
I  was  borne  away  to  dreamland 
In  her  dear  old  rocking  chair." 

She  was  always  kind,  though  firm ;  and  never  punished 
me  for  ordinary  offenses;  on  the  contrary,  she  would 
talk  to  me  very  gently,  and  in  this  way  she  would  con- 
vince me  of  my  fault  and  bring  me  into  a  state  of  real 
and  heartfelt  penitence.  My  playmates  always  knew 
that  I  was  interested  in  nearly  every  kind  of  childish 
mischief;  and  they  were  not  in  the  least  hesitant  about 
inviting  me  to  engage  in  any  of  their  most  daring 
exploits. 

On  one  occasion  grandmother  slapped  my  hands 
for  some  breach  of  good  behaviour.  This  grieved  me 
greatly;  and  at  once  bitter  resentment  sprang  up  in  my 
heart.  Thinking  to  soothe  me,  a  little  companion 
called  me  out  to  play  with  him,  but,  as  I  went,  some- 
thing within  said,  "Yes  I  will  play  with  you;  but  I  will 
hurt  you,  for  grandma  has  hurt  me."  And  so  I  threw 
a  stone  at  him,  but  missed  my  aim;  and  the  cloud  soon 
passed  and  all  was  sunny  again.  Fifty  years  later, 
to  my  great  surprise,  when  I  was  lecturing  in  Yonkers, 
New  York,  a  man  whispered  in  my  ear,  "Don't  you 
remember  David  Ketcham,  your  early  playmate?" 
Certainly  I  remembered  him  and  we  had  a  good  laugh 
over  the  incident  that  I  have  just  related;  and,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  over  many  others  of  a  more  pleasing 
character. 


U  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

When  I  was  three  years  of  age  mother  moved  to 
North  Salem  in  the  neighboring  Westchester  County, 
where  we  remained  five  years  among  a  number  of  delight- 
ful Quaker  families,  who  taught  me  to  use  what  they 
called  the  "plain  language,"  or  the  common  speech 
of  the  Friends.  One  good  man  and  I  became  constant 
companions;  and  often  when  he  was  going  to  mill  he 
found  me  a  very  willing  passenger,  and  sometimes  an 
uninvited  guest.  But  whenever  I  persisted  in  going 
he  generally  gave  way  after  the  first  feeble  resistance. 

"No,  thee  ain't  going  with  me,"  he  would  say;  and 
I  as  surely  replied, 

"David,  I  tell  thee  I  am  going  to  mill  with  thee." 
"Well,  get  thy  bonnet  and  come  along." 
When  I  had  exhausted  all  the  methods  of  entertain- 
ment at  my  command,  mother  came  to  me  and  said, 

"I  think  I  have  found  something  that  will  please 
you."  Then  she  placed  in  my  arms  a  tiny  lamb,  that 
had  lost  its  mother;  and  the  little  orphan  at  once  was 
received  into  the  warmth  of  my  affections.  Through 
the  fields  and  meadows  we  romped  when  the  days  were 
warm;  occasionally  I  fell  asleep  under  a  great  oak  tree 
with  my  pet  by  my  side.  But  he  soon  grew  into  a  strange 
creature,  quite  unlike  the  gentle  lamb  that  I  had  first 
known,  for  he  used  to  throw  me  to  the  ground  and  tear 
my  dress  and  make  me  cry.  For  a  time  I  forgave  him, 
but  at  last  he  disappeared,  and  not  many  days  there- 
after the  family  had  mutton  for  dinner.  My  pet  had 
not  returned;  I  knew  at  once  what  had  become  of  him; 
so  I  refused  to  eat  meat  that  day,  and  slipped  off  into 


FLOWERS  THAT  NEVER  FADE  15 

a  corner  so  as  not  to  betray  the  tears  that  I  could  not 
restrain.  For  many  weeks  I  wore  mourning  in  my 
heart  for  him,  and  among  those  who  vainly  tried  to 
comfort  me  was  Daniel  Drew,  who  offered  to  replace 
my  pet  from  the  flocks  that  he  drove  by  our  door,  though, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  all  my  friends,  I  declined  his 
gift.  I  reasoned,  why  should  I  again  be  deprived  of 
a  dear  pet?  I  will  have  none;  then  there  will  be  no 
chance  of  it. 

The  old  Quaker  church  still  stands  about  as  it  did 
when  we  worshipped  there;  and  the  remembrance  of 
these  kind  Westchester  people  is  one  of  the  fadeless 
flowers. 

I  had  a  cousin  who  was  fond  of  writing  comic  poetry. 
In  our  neighborhood  there  lived  an  old  lady,  named 
Maty  Barbor,  who  was  a  trouble  wherever  she  went. 
One  time  she  came  to  his  father's  house  to  remain  over 
Sunday,  and  asked  that  he  write  for  her  a  verse  of  poetry. 
At  first  he  declined ;  but  when  she  persisted  a  long  time 
he  gave  her  the  following: 

"Aunt  Mary  Barb  r 
Has  had  a  good  harbor 
All  through  this  holy  Sabbath  day; 
Tomorrow  morning 
I  have  her  take  warning, 
And  pack  up  her   duds  and  march 
away." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Hail,  holy  light,  offspring  of  Heaven,  first  born, 
And  of  the  eternal,  co-eternal  Being! 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed,  since  God  is  Light, 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  Celestial  light, 
Shine  inward  and  the  mind  with  all  her  powers 
Irradiate ;   there  plant  eyes ;  all   mist   from   thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." — Milton. 

TO  look  forth  over  the  wide  expanse  of  ocean 
and  behold  the  white  capped  billows  in 
their  playful  moods  chasing  each  other  as 
if  impatient  for  the  coming  of  the  pure 
morn;  or  to  look  forth  from  the  highest  peak  of  some 
gigantic  mountain  in  wonder  and  astonishment  on 
the  endless  variety  of  scenes,  arising  like  a  magical 
forest  in  the  distance, —  the  ability  to  do  this  is  a  gift 
the  full  significance  of  which  thought  can  scarcely 
conceive  or  language  picture.  This  gift  of  seeing  is 
one  that  ought  to  inspire  in  the  heart  of  him  who 
possesses  it  many  tender  emotions  of  gratitude  to  the 
Eternal  One,  who,  amid  the  splendors  that  encircled 
His  throne,  lifted  a  mighty  voice,   and  through  the 

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THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  BLIND  17 


chaotic  gloom  that  held  in  midnight  darkness  the  silent 
deep,  uttered  the  sublime  command,  "Let  there  be 
light." 

It  has  always  been  my  favorite  theory  that  the  blind 
can  accomplish  nearly  everything  that  may  be  done 
by  those  who  can  see.  Do  not  think  that  those  who 
are  deprived  of  physical  vision  are  shut  out  from  the 
best  that  earth  has  to  offer  her  children.  There  are 
a  few  exceptions  that  instantly  come  to  my  mind.  For 
example,  through  the  medium  of  sight  alone,  does  the 
astronomer  mark  the  courses,  the  magnitudes  and  the 
varied  motions  of  all  the  heavenly  bodies;  and  only 
through  the  medium  of  the  eye  can  the  sculptor  pro- 
duce a  beautiful  statue  from  the  rude  and  uncut  mar- 
ble. His  sight  must  guide  him  in  reproducing  the 
image  that  is  already  modelled  in  his  own  mind;  and 
so,  likewise,  of  the  painter,  for  he  frequently  pauses  in 
his  busy  hours  and  turns  his  gaze  toward  the  rich 
crimson  clouds  which  fall  so  gracefully  amid  the 
glories  of  the  autumnal  sunset.  He  must  try  to  re- 
produce the  vision  that  he  gets  from  them,  and  it  is 
only  through  the  eye  that  the  picture  of  the  actual 
cloud  enters. 

From  attaining  high  rank  in  these  fine  arts  the  blind 
of  necessity,  are  debarred;  but  not  so  from  poetry  and 
music,  in  which  the  mind  gives  us  a  true  image  of  the 
reality.  Almost  every  lad  at  school  is  able  to  relate 
stray  bits  of  legendary  lore  of  ancient  and  modern  artists 
who  have  been  blind.  Indeed,  who  can  forget  Euclid, 
the  blind  geometrician;  or  Homer,  the  blind  bard;  or 


18  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Milton,  the  author  of  that  beautiful  apostrophe  to  light 
which  was  quoted  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 

A  great  many  people  fancy  that  the  blind  learn  music 
only  by  ear,  never  by  note ;  and  yet  a  number  of  musical 
experts  have  told  me  that  their  blind  pupils  learn  as 
proficiently  as  others  by  the  latter  method.  It  is  truly 
wonderful — marvellous — to  what  a  degree  the  memory 
can  be  trained,  not  only  by  those  who  rely  upon  it  for 
most  of  their  knowledge  of  the  external  world,  but  by 
all  who  wish  to  add  to  their  general  intellectual  culture. 

But  why  should  the  blind  be  regarded  as  objects  of 
pity?  Darkness  may  indeed  throw  a  shadow  over 
the  outer  vision;  but  there  is  no  cloud,  however  dark, 
that  can  keep  the  sunlight  of  hope  from  the  trustful 
soul.  One  of  the  earliest  resolves  that  I  formed  in  my 
young  and  joyous  heart  was  to  leave  all  care  to  yester- 
day and  believe  that  the  morrow  would  bring  forth  its 
own  peculiar  joy;  and,  behold,  when  the  morrow  dawned, 
I  generally  have  found  that  the  human  spirit  can  take 
on  the  rosy  tints  of  the  reddening  east.  Early  and  late 
I  played  with  the  children  of  my  own  age ;  and  our  elders 
were  in  the  habit  of  remarking  that  Fanny  Crosby  was 
certain  to  be  interested  in  any  mischief  that  occurred. 
With  the  agility  of  a  squirrel  I  used  to  climb  trees,  and 
ride  horses  as  fleet  as  the  wind,  while  I  hung  on  to  their 
mane  for  dear  life;  and  climb  stone  fences,  in  every 
respect,  just  like  other  children.  Whenever  I  tore  my 
dress  I  managed  to  keep  out  of  mother's  sight  until  I 
fancied  she  would  not  notice  it,  which  was  a  very  rare 
occurrence  indeed. 


THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  BLIND  19 

When  I  was  six  weeks  of  age  a  slight  cold  caused 
an  inflammation  of  the  eyes,  which  appeared  to  demand 
the  attention  of  the  family  physician;  but  he  not  being 
at  home,  a  stranger  was  called.  He  recommended  the 
use  of  hot  poultices,  which  ultimately  destroyed  the  sense 
of  sight.  When  this  sad  misfortune  became  known 
throughout  our  neighborhood,  the  unfortunate  man 
thought  it  best  to  leave;  and  we  never  heard  of  him 
again.  But  I  have  not  for  a  moment,  in  more  than 
eighty-five  years,  felt  a  spark  of  resentment  against  him 
because  I  have  always  believed  from  my  youth  to  this 
very  moment  that  the  good  Lord,  in  His  Infinite  Mercy, 
by  this  means  consecrated  me  to  the  work  that  I  am 
still  permitted  to  do.  When  I  remember  His  mercy 
and  lovingkindness;  when  I  have  been  blessed  above 
the  common  lot  of  mortals;  and  when  happiness  has 
touched  the  deep  places  of  my  soul, — how  can  I  repine  ? 
And  I  have  often  thought  of  the  passage  of  Scripture: 
''The  light  of  the  body  is  the  eye;  if,  therefore,  thine  eye 
be  single  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light.  But  if 
thine  eye  be  evil,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  cf  dark- 
ness. If,  therefore,  the  light  that  is  in  thee  be  darkness, 
how  great  is  that  darknesc!  " 


CHAPTER  III 
FIRST  VISIT  TO  NEW  YORK 

IN  the  present  era,  with  its  many  modes  of  rapid 
transit,  one  is  quite  liable  to  forget  that  most 
of  them  have  come  into  being  within  less  than 
fifty  years,  and  I  am  sometimes  amazed  at  the 
thought  that  not  until  after  I  was  born  did  the  first 
locomotive  turn  a  wheel  on  this  Western  Continent. 
When  I  ride  in  the  mighty  express  trains  that  fly 
across  the  country,  how  marvellous  it  seems!  But  do 
not  think  that  I  belong  to  that  class  of  people  who 
looking  back  over  many  years,  think  the  old  times 
better  than  our  own.  It  is  only  the  memory  of  the  past 
that  I  cherish  and  that  memory  thrills  me  with  a  pathos 
which  I  cannot,  nor  do  I  wish  to  forget.  As  I  am  writing, 
the  horse-back  journeys  of  our  old  postman  seem  to  have 
been  but  last  week,  so  well  do  I  remember  how  horse 
and  rider  used  to  flit  across  the  landscape  like  the  shuttle 
in  an  ancient  loom,  and  I  see  again  the  tall,  well-built 
kindly  man  (which  the  sound  of  his  voice  told  me  he 
was)  when  he  came  to  our  door  the  first  time.  We 
were  staunch  friends  in  a  few  days,  for  one  of  my  house- 
hold duties  was  to  get  the  mail  from  him  each  Thursday. 
I  was  greatly  interested  to  know  that  he  had  a  little  girl 
about  my  own  age  and  size,  and  in  my  fond  day-dreams 
I  hoped  for  a  meeting  with  her  some  time  when  both  of 
us  became  a  little  older.    But  I  never  met  her,  although 

20 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  NEW  YORK  21 

her  father  continued  his  weekly  visits  for  a  number  of 
years,  until  one  morning  a  younger  man  came  with  the 
mail  and  announced  himself  as  the  son  and  successor 
of  our  old  post-rider.  But  he  did  not  succeed  to  the 
place  in  my  affections  occupied  by  his  father. 

A  few  weeks  after  my  fifth  birthday,  one  balmy 
morning  in  early  April,  mother  called  me  to  her  side  and 
said, 

"We  are  going  to  New  York  to  consult  Dr.  Valentine 
Mctt  regarding  your  eyes." 

That  announcement  pleased  me,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  purpose  of  the  visit,  for  I  was  contented 
with  my  lot,  as  the  mere  fact  that  I  was  to  learn  some- 
thing of  the  world  outside.  The  best  that  we  could  do 
in  those  early  days  was  to  take  a  sailing-vessel  from 
Sing-Sing,  and  a  common  market-wagon  was  the  only 
available  conveyance  to  get  us  to  this  town.  We  were 
glad  of  even  this,  however,  and  so  the  next  morning 
about  eight  o'clock  we  began  the  momentous  journey. 
At  three  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived  at  Sing-Sing,  where 
we  went  on  board  the  vessel  and  one  hour  later  the  white 
sails  began  to  take  the  wind  and  we  were  again  on  our 
way  to  the  city  at  the  mouth  of  the  great  Hudson  River. 

My  mother  became  quite  ill  from  the  motion  of  the 
boat  before  we  were  many  miles  from  Sing-Sing,  and 
retired  below,  leaving  me  in  charge  of  Captain  Green 
and  a  cousin  of  ours  who  was  also  going  down  the  river. 
To  me  everything  about  the  sloop  was  as  interesting 
as  it  was  new,  especially  the  "sea"  yarns  the  captain 
told  to  me,  and  in  return  for  his  kindness,  I  was  only 


22  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

too  glad  to  sing  for  him  the  few  songs  that  I  knew.  "Hail 
Columbia,  Happy  Land"  was  one  of  them;  I  have  for- 
gotten most  of  the  others  excepting  one  sad  piece  in 
which  a  poor  wretch  told  a  bit  of  his  own  experience. 
He  had  been  convicted  for  beating  his  adopted  daughter 
to  death,  and  on  the  way  to  prison  wrote  some  verses 
called  "A  Prisoner  for  Life."  The  words  had  no  tune 
of  their  own,  but  I  managed  to  find  one  for  them  among 
those  which  my  friends  had  taught  me.  The  first  stanza 
is  all  that  I  remember, 

"Adieu,  ye  green  fields;  ye  soft  meadows,  adieu; 
Ye  hills  and  ye  mountains,  I  hasten  from  you. 
No  more  shall  my  eyes  with  your  beauty  be  blest, 
No  more  shall  ye  soothe  my  sad  bosom  to  rest." 

This  fragment  illustrates  the  nondescript  character  of 
the  songs  that  I  committed  to  memory.  One  of  them 
that  I  remember  to  this  day  had  nearly  fifty  stanzas, 
a  complete  novel  in  verse.  Some  were  patriotic;  some 
humorous  and  not  a  few  sentimental.  One  ditty  told 
the  story  of 

"Four  score  and  ten  of  us,  poor  old  bachelors, 
Four  score  and  ten  of  us,  poor  old  bachelors, 
Four  score  and  ten  of  us,  and  not  a  penny  in 

our  purse, 
Something    must    be   done    for   us    poor   old 
bachelors." 

Whether  anyone  was  good  enough  to  relieve  them  of 


FIRST  VISIT  TO   NEW  YORK  23 

their  poverty  I  do  not  know,  but  I  suspect  that  they  may 
have  finally  married  rich  widows,  for  their  mournful 
plaint  has  been  hushed  these  many  years. 

But  our  sail  down  the  Hudson  was  full  of  other  inci- 
dents, one  of  the  best  being  connected  with  a  fellow 
passenger,  who  was  taking  a  cow  to  the  city;  and  the 
cow,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  better  behaved  than  her 
owner.  He  was  somewhat  under  the  influence  of  liquor; 
and,  when  Captain  Green  suggested  that  the  cow  ought 
to  be  milked,  he  was  very  angry.  But  at  length  while 
he  was  engaged  in  another  part  of  the  vessel  someone 
relieved  the  cow  of  her  milk,  and  my  mother,  who  during 
the  interval  had  recovered,  was  commissioned  to  make 
a  custard.  She  did  so;  and  even  the  morose  owner  of 
the  cow  was  obliged  to  pronounce  her  a  good  cook. 

After  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  long  trip  we  arrived 
at  New  York;  but  for  a  few  days  we  remained  with 
friends  in  the  city.  I  was  much  perplexed  at  the  noise, 
which  was  indeed  a  great  contrast  to  the  quietness  of 
our  rural  home.  How  well  I  recall  every  detail  of  our 
visit  to  Dr.  Valentine  Mott.  When  we  arrived  at  his 
office,  the  famous  physician  was  engaged  with  a  patient, 
and  gave  me  some  toys  for  my  amusement.  Before 
I  was  weary  of  them,  Dr.  Mott  said  he  was  ready  to 
make  the  examination,  and  you  may  be  sure  those  were 
anxious  moments  to  my  dear  mother.  She  had  come 
what  was  then  considered  a  long  distance  to  consult 
the  test  eye  specialist  in  America,  and  the  result  of  his 
examination  would  bring  her  either  the  greatest  joy  or 
the  most  intense  grief. 


24  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

After  what  seemed  a  very  long  time  for  the  consider- 
ation of  my  case,  Dr.  Mott  asked  me, 

"Would  you  like  to  have  me  do  something  for  your 
eyes  that  will  make  you  see?" 

"No  sir,"  I  replied  promptly,  moving  nearer  to  my 
mother,  for  I  was  afraid  that  might  mean  he  would 
need  to  hurt  me.  After  a  long  pause  the  kind  physician 
put  his  hand  on  my  head  and  said, 

''Poor  child,  I  am  afraid  you  will  never  see  again." 
With  these  words  the  last  ray  of  hope  died  in  my  dear 
mother's  heart.  She  knew  she  had  done  everything  in 
her  power  for  me  and  she  could  not  help  feeling  sad 
because  the  object  of  her  journey  had  failed,  and  now 
nothing  remained  for  her  except  to  return  home.  I 
could  not  understand  why  she  should  be  so  anxious 
concerning  me.  It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  late 
April,  for  under  the  gentle  wooing  of  the  sun  all  nature 
was  springing  into  life  and  fragrance.  My  sight  was 
not  totally  destroyed  and  I  could  distinguish,  though 
very  faintly,  any  vivid  color  placed  on  the  right  kind  of 
background.  We  had  tea  at  five  o'clock,  after  which 
I  wanted  to  go  on  deck,  so  mother  took  me  out  and  left 
me  there  while  she  went  back  and  finished  her  supper. 
It  was  near  sunset,  and  as  there  was  but  little  air  stir- 
ring the  vessel  rested  quietly  on  the  water.  Fancy  came 
to  me  and  whispered  that  I  might  get  a  glimpse  of 
color  from  the  shifting  waves  of  the  Hudson. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  slowly  behind  the  cliffs 
that  line  the  west  bank  the  light  was  magnified  in  the 
mirror  of  the  waters;  and  I  was  enabled  to  distinguish 


FIRST  VISIT  TO   NEW   YORK  35 

a  few  of  the  most  brilliant  of  the  golden  hues;  and  as 
I  sat  there  on  the  deck,  amid  the  glories  of  departing 
day,  the  low  murmur  of  the  waves  soothed  my  soul  into 
a  delightful  peace.  Their  music  was  translated  into 
tones  that  were  like  a  human  voice,  and  for  many  years 
their  melody  suggested  to  my  imagination  the  call  of 
Genius  as  she  was  struggling  to  be  heard  from  her  prison 
house  in  some  tiny  shell  lying  perchance  on  the  bottom 
of  the  river.  When  I  finally  went  to  New  York  to  school 
the  noble  lines  of  Byron  became  familiar;  and  now, 
whether  I  listen  to  the  mighty  billows  of  the  ocean  or 
to  the  smallest  ripple  on  the  bosom  of  some  inland  lake, 
the  language  of  each  to  me  is  the  same,  and  the  appeal 
i.-  irresistible.     For 

"There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar." 

After  the  visit  to  Dr.  Valentine  Mott  my  life  went  on 
as  before  until  I  was  eight  years  old,  when  we  moved 
to  Ridgefield,  Connecticut;  and  there  we  remained  until 
I  was  fourteen.  During  these  years  my  greatest  anxiety 
centered  itself  in  the  constant  thought  that  I  would  not 
be  able  to  get  an  education;  but,  in  the  meantime,  I  was 
determined  to  be  as  content  as  circumstances  would 
allow,  and  to  hope  for  any  good  fortune  that  the  future 
might  have  in  store.  To  express  my  trust  that  all  would 
be  well,  when  I  was  eight  or  nine  years  old,  I  composed 
the  following  lines: 


26  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Oh,  what  a  happy  soul  I  am, 
Although  I  cannot  see, 
I  am  resolved  that  in  this  world 
Contented  I  will  be. 

"How  many  blessings  I  enjoy 
That  other  people  don't! 
To  weep  and  sigh  because  I'm  blind 
I  cannot  nor  I  won't." 

I  am  sure  that  my  sentiment  in  these  verses  is  more 
worthy  than  the  poetic  form.  My  dear  mother  at  times 
became  very  sad  because  I  was  blind;  and  then  grand- 
mother would  quote  the  lines  of  the  grand  old  hymn 
of  Christian  faith: 

"Though  troubles  assail  and  dangers  affright, 
Though  friends  should  all  fail  and  foes  all  unite; 
Yet  one  thing  assures  us,  whatever  betide, 
The  Scripture  assures  us  the  Lord  will  provide." 

When  I  used  to  hear  our  Presbyterian  Church  chou- 
sing some  of  the  beautiful  old  hymns  my  heart  was  deeply 
moved.  Seventy-five  years  ago  there  were  few  hymn- 
books;  and  my  earliest  knowledge  of  sacred  songs  came 
from  a  tailor,  who  belonged  to  the  Methodist  Church. 
All  of  my  own  friends  were  Presbyterians  of  the  primitive 
stock ;  and  it  was  not  until  I  was  twelve  years  old  that  I 
attended  a  service  in  the  Methodist  meeting-house  in 
Ridgefield.  For  the  services  in  our  own  church  it  was 
the  custom  for  one  of  the  deacons  to  compose  a  hymn 
to  be  sung  to  some  standard  tune ;  frequently  two  deacons 


FIRST  VISIT  TO   NEW  YORK  27 

were  required  for  a  single  hymn,  and  that  not  a  very 
good  one.  Yet  many  of  these  homely  productions 
possessed  some  genuine  poetic  merit.  One  of  them  I 
remember  contained  the  following  stanzas: 

''Kind  Father,  condescend  to  bless 
Thy  sacred  word  to  me, 
That,  aided  by  Thy  heavenly  grace, 
I  may  remember  Thee. 

"And  when  life's  journey  shall  be  o'er, 
Thy  glory  may  we  see; 
Dear  Saviour,  I  will  ask  no  more 
Than  this,  Remember  me." 

Mrs.  Hawley,  a  kind  Christian  lady,  in  whose  house 
we  resided,  and  who  had  no  children  of  her  own,  became 
deeply  interested  in  me,  and  under  her  supervision  I 
acquired  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  Bible.  She  gave 
me  a  number  of  chapters  each  week  to  learn,  sometimes 
as  many  as  five,  if  they  were  short  ones,  and  so  at  the 
end  of  the  first  twelve  months  I  could  repeat  a  large 
portion  of  the  first  four  books  of  the  Old  Testament 
and  the  four  Gospels.  At  Sunday-school  the  children 
would  stand  in  the  aisles  and  repeat  some  of  the  passages 
that  they  had  committed  during  the  previous  week; 
and  there  was  considerable  rivalry  in  trying  to  recite 
the  largest  number.  I  often  hunted  among  the  records 
of  my  memory  for  the  longest  and  most  involved  verses 
with  the  idea  of  showing  my  elders  what  a  little  blind 
girl  could  do  and  they,  in  turn,  flattered  me  with  compli- 


28  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

merits  and  presented  me  with  a  fine  Bible  for  reciting 
more  verses  than  any  other  scholar.  Had  my  growing 
pride  been  unchecked  by  my  friends  at  home,  it  might 
have  proven  a  stumbling  block  in  after  years ;  and  yet  the 
habit  of  thoroughly  learning  my  lessons  helped  me  many 
times  when  I  was  obliged  to  commit  long  passages  as 
a  pupil,  and  afterwards  as  a  teacher,  in  the  New  York 
Institution  for  the  Blind. 

As  I  have  said  before,  our  people  were  Calvinistic 
Presbyterians,  and  yet  the  most  of  my  friends  appre- 
ciated all  of  the  pleasures  and  joys  of  life.  The  good 
Mrs.  Hawley  was  kind  in  every  respect  and  sought  to 
teach  me  many  practical  lessons  that  I  now  remember 
with  gratitude  and  affection.  Of  course,  the  story  of 
George  Washington  and  his  little  hatchet  was  not  for- 
gotten, for  it  was  new  in  those  days  and  was  emphasized 
even  more  than  at  present ;  and  it  was  one  of  the  mys- 
teries of  my  young  life  how  he  could  have  been  so  very 
good  while  the  rest  of  us  tried  so  hard  and  often 
failed  to  attain  the  standard  of  truthfulness  that  the 
Father  of  Our  Country  had  set  for  us. 

But  I  had  occasion  to  learn  my  own  lesson  from 
positive  experience.  It  happened  that  Mrs.  Hawley 
had  several  beautiful  rose-bushes  in  her  front  garden; 
and  it  was  understood  that  I  might  pick  from  any  of 
them  whenever  I  chose,  excepting  one  from  which  grew 
a  choice  white  variety.  One  afternoon  a  playmate  was 
determined  to  have  one  of  the  forbidden  flowers.  I 
said,  "Mrs.  Hawley  doesn't  wish  us  to  pick  them." 
But  my  companion  would  not  be  satisfied  with  such 


FIRST  VISIT  TO   NEW  YORK  29 

a  reason,  and  I  eventually  yielded  and  gave  him  one  of 
the  coveted  roses.  At  the  time  Mrs.  Hawley  was  sitting 
by  the  window  and,  therefore,  saw  the  whole  affair; 
and  during  the  afternoon  she  called  me  to  her  and  said, 
''Fanny,  do  you  know  who  picked  the  pretty  white  rose 
from  the  bush  yonder?"  "No,  madam,"  I  answered 
meekly.  She  said  no  more  and  I  thought  she  had  for- 
gotten the  incident,  when  she  called  me  to  her  side  and 
read  the  story  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira;  and,  from  that 
hour,  I  told  no  more  falsehoods  to  my  good  friend. 

To  a  young  and  imaginative  person  there  is  nothing 
more  inspiring  than  life  in  the  country.  Existence 
becomes  a  perpetual  dream  of  delight;  and  there  are 
no  pangs  to  sadden  the  buoyant  spirit.  The  sunny 
hours  of  my  childhood  flowed  onward  as  placidly  as 
the  waters  of  the  Hudson,  not  many  miles  distant  from 
our  home.  Through  the  secular  and  religious  papers 
our  town  was  in  communication  with  the  great  world 
outside.  To  be  sure,  the  news  sometimes  came  several 
days  after  it  had  happened,  but  it  was  new  to  us.  I 
used  to  sigh  and  wonder  if  I  would  ever  be  able  to  gain 
very  much  of  the  great  store  of  human  knowledge,  but 
I  hoped  some  day  at  least  to  travel  and  visit  a  few  of  the 
places  of  which  we  constantly  heard.  Before  many 
years  this  desire  for  information  quickened  all  my  senses 
until  I  was  eager  and  alert  to  the  smallest  chance  of 
learning  something.  My  heart  sank  within  me,  how- 
ever, when  I  realized  that  there  was  no  way  for  me  to 
learn;  and   thus,   not  being  satisfied,   my  longing  for 


SO  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

knowledge  became  a  passion  from  which  there  was 
seldom  any  rest.  A  great  barrier  seemed  to  rise  before 
me,  shutting  away  from  me  some  of  the  best  things 
of  which  I  dreamed  in  my  sleeping  and  waking  hours. 
I  was  somewhat  impatient,  still  hopeful;  but  as  the 
years  succeeded  each  other  in  their  usual  round,  what 
frequently  seemed  to  me  an  oasis,  sooner  or  later,  faded 
like  a  mirage  farther  and  farther  into  the  dim  and  distant 
future. 

I  often  went  to  visit  my  grandmother,  who  lived  in 
the  house  where  I  was  born ;  and  it  was  a  great  pleasure 
to  report  the  progress  that  I  was  making  in  the  study 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures  My  desire  for  knowledge  was 
increasing,  but  I  found  that  the  teacher  in  the  village 
school,  to  which  I  often  went  with  the  children  of  my 
own  age,  was  too  busy  to  give  me  the  personal  help  that 
I  needed.  Grandmother  was  very  patient  with  me  and 
did  all  that  she  possibly  could  for  my  happiness.  When 
I  went  to  see  her  she  always  gave  me  the  room  that  I 
liked  best;  and  I  shall  never  forget  one  night  that  I  spent 
there.  Toward  twilight  she  called  me  to  her  and  both 
of  us  sat  for  a  time  talking  in  the  old  rocking  chair. 
Then  we  knelt  down  by  its  side  and  repeated  a  petition 
to  the  kind  Father,  after  which  she  went  quietly  down 
stairs,  leaving  me  alone  with  my  own  thoughts.  The 
night  was  beautiful.  I  crept  toward  the  window;  and 
through  the  branches  of  a  giant  oak  that  stood  just  out- 
side, the  soft  moonlight  fell  upon  my  head  like  the  bene- 
diction of  an  angel,  while  I  knelt  there  and  repeated 
over  and  over  these  simple  words, 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  NEW  YORK  81 

"Dear  Lord,  please  show  me  how  I  can  learn  like 
other  children." 

At  this  moment  the  weight  of  anxiety  that  had  bur- 
dened my  heart  was  changed  to  the  sweet  consciousness 
that  my  prayer  would  be  answered  in  due  time.  If  I 
had  been  restless  and  impatient  before,  from  that  time 
forth  I  was  still  eager,  but  confident  that  God  would 
point  a  way  for  me  to  gain  the  education  which  I  craved. 
As  I  have  already  said,  I  felt  no  resentment  against  the 
poor  physician  who  destroyed  my  eyes,  but  I  was  not 
content  always  to  live  in  ignorance;  and,  in  the  course  of 
time,  in  a  way  of  which  I  had  no  previous  intimation, 
my  wish  was  to  be  granted  in  fullest  measure. 


CHAPTER  IV 
EARLY  POETIC  TRAINING 

EVEN  before  I  was  eight  years  of  age  my 
imagination  was  occupied  with  all  sorts  of 
material  that  I  was  constantly  weaving  into 
various  forms;  and  among  these  were  rude 
snatches  of  verse,  none  of  which,  however,  saw  the 
light  of  the  newspapers.  My  mother  was  in  the  habit 
of  reading  to  me  from  the  best  poets;  and  I  soon  be- 
came so  presumptuous  as  to  believe  that  I  could 
improve  on  some  of  the  hymns  that  were  composed 
by  the  deacons  of  our  Presbyterian  Church.  Such 
subjects  as  "The  Moaning  of  the  Wind  for  the  Flow- 
ers" seemed  especially  beautiful;  and  some  lines  written 
on  this  topic  were  copied  by  a  friend  and  sent  to  my 
grandfather,  who  immediately  hailed  me  as  a  promising 
poet;  but  he  was  very  careful  not  to  say  much  about 
it  in  my  presence,  because  he  thought  that  any  words 
of  praise  might  blast  my  budding  poetic  genius  through 
the  pride  that  I  might  feel.  Nine  years  from  that  date 
the  same  dear  man  walked  four  miles  and  back  again 
for  the  purpose  of  purchasing  a  copy  of  the  New  York 
"  Herald, "  containing  some  verses  I  had  written  on  the 
death  of  General  Harrison. 

One  earlier  effusion,  unbeknown  to  me,  crept  into 
the  papers,  and  might  have  caused  me  not  a  little  trouble. 
It  described  the  dishonest  acts  of  a  miller,  then  living 

32 


EARLY  POETIC   TRAINING  33 

not  far  from  Ridgeneld,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  mixing 
his  flour  with  corn  meal;  and  was  sent  by  a  friend  of 
mine  to  the  "  Herald  of  Freedom,"  a  small  weekly  paper 
published  by  P.  T.  Barnum  at  Danbury.  The  gentle- 
man who  afterward  became  so  famous  as  the  greatest 
showman  in  the  world  evidently  thought  my  production 
worth  exhibiting;  for,  much  to  my  regret,  he  gave  it 
a  small  corner  in  his  paper.  Thus  might  I  have  held 
an  uncomfortable  niche  in  the  hall  of  fame  provided  by 
Mr.  Barnum.  But  I  chose  only  to  exhibit  the  first 
stanza  of  my  little  ditty: 

"  There  is  a  miller  in  our  town, 
How  dreadful  is  his  case; 
I  fear  unless  he  does  repent 
He'll  meet  with  sad  disgrace." 

Sooner  or  later,  I  have  been  informed,  nearly  every 
budding  poet  takes  to  writing  obituaries.  My  own 
experience  at  least  bears  out  the  statement;  though  I 
was  among  the  gayest  of  the  gay  myself,  the  demise  of 
any  of  the  neighbors  would  cause  my  muse  to  shed  a  few 
sympathetic  tears.  How  glad  I  am,  however,  that  none 
of  these  early  productions  were  preserved!  What  did 
a  child,  full  of  life  as  I  was,  understand  of  death? 

It  will  be  more  appropriate,  therefore,  to  say  some- 
thing about  our  games  in  Ridgefield.  Every  evening 
twelve  or  fourteen  of  us  girls  and  boys  were  accustomed 
to  gather  on  the  common,  which  was  directly  opposite 
our  house,  and  play  at  blind  man's  buff,  London  Bridge, 
hiding  the  thimble,  or  some  other  game  that  the  little 


34  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


folks  still  enjoy.  We  had  besides  another  one,  which 
was  named  "spinning  wheel,"  because  we  used  to  bend 
down  the  mullen  plant  and  use  it  to  imitate  the  motion 
of  the  tread  of  a  spinning  wheel,  while  all  danced  and 
sang  an  appropriate  round,  or  some  popular  song  of 
the  day.  One  of  these  now  remembered  was  " Scotland 
Is  Burning";  and  there  were  a  score  of  others  that  have 
now  long  since  passed  into  oblivion. 

Sometimes  we  made  a  ring  by  joining  hands  and 
circled  around  a  boy  and  a  girl,  who  stood  in  the 
center  and  represented  a  newly  married  couple. 
Meanwhile  we  exhorted  the  boy, 

"Now  you're  married,  you  must  be  good, 
And  keep  your  wife  in  oven-wood. " 

Some  of  the  sentimental  songs  of  the  day  were  very 
beautiful  and  as  well  liked  by  the  children  as  the  modern 
"  rag-time "  ditties  are  by  this  generation.  Many  of 
them  are  still  fresh  in  my  mind  and  I  will  quote  a  stanza 
from  one  of  them.  "The  Rose  of  Allandale"  begins 
as  follows, — 

"The  morn  was  fair,  the  sky  was  clear, 
No  breath  came  o'er  the  sea, 
When  Mary  left  her  Highland  cot 
And  wandered  forth  with  me. 

"Though  flowers  decked  the  mountain-side, 
And  fragrance  filled  the  vale, 
By  far  the  sweetest  flower  there 
Was  the  Rose  of  Allandale." 


EARLY  POETIC  TRAINING  35 

Among  the  playmates  who  used  to  gather  on  the 
village  green  was  Sylvester  Main,  who  was  two  or  three 
years  older  than  I.  He  was  a  prime  favorite  with  the 
gentler  sex,  for  he  used  to  protect  us  from  the  annoyances 
of  more  mischievous  boys.  In  the  autumn  of  1834 
mother  and  I  left  Ridgefield  and  went  to  live  again  in 
Westchester  County;  and  I  then  bade  my  friend,  Syl- 
vester, adieu.  Not  until  thirty  years  later  did  we  meet 
again,  this  time,  strangely  enough,  in  the  office  of  William 
B.  Bradbury  with  whom  he  was  afterwards  a  business 
partner;  and  from  1864  to  the  time  of  his  death  in  1873 
we  worked  together  constantly. 

During  the  winter  months  a  music  teacher  came  to 
Ridgefield  twice  a  week  to  give  singing  lessons.  As 
a  text  book  we  used  the  famous  "Handel  and  Hadyn 
Collection,"  which  was  first  published  in  1832  by  the 
celebrated  Dr.  Lowell  Mason;  and  from  time  to  time 
we  eagerly  bought  the  revised  editions  as  they  were 
issued.  While  our  chorus  was  singing  an  unfamiliar 
tune,  "Lisbon,"  one  evening  the  rest  of  the  singers  broke 
down,  leaving  me  carrying  the  air  all  alone;  and  you 
may  be  sure  I  was  much  frightened  at  the  sound  of  my 
own  voice,  and  would  have  cried,  had  not  the  teacher 
spoken  kind  words  assuring  me  that  I  had  not  committed 
any  offense.  I  can  still  hear  some  of  the  sweet  voices 
of  my  friends  reverberating  through  the  old  Presbyterian 
meeting-house;  the  tuning  fork  of  the  choirmaster  as  he 
"set"  the  pitch ;  and  the  deep  mellow  tenor  of  the  minister 
as  he  answered  the  choir  from  the  pulpit. 

Meanwhile  my  imagination  was  always  looking  for 


3G  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

something  of  interest,  and  it  was  often  satisfied  with 
romantic  tales  of  wild  life  in  the  West,  or  the  story  of 
Robin  Hood  and  his  remarkable  brigands.  Some 
member  of  our  household  was  in  the  habit  of  reading 
aloud  during  the  long  winter  evenings;  and  many  a 
night,  when  they  supposed  me  to  be  asleep,  I  was  eagerly 
catching  every  word  that  was  read.  "Don  Quixote" 
interested  me  somewhat,  but  a  certain  story  that  bears 
the  tell-tale  title  of  "Rhinaldo  Rhinaldine,  the  Bandit," 
captivated  my  fancy  completely;  and  from  that  winter 
until  the  present  I  have  always  been  a  warm  admirer 
of  that  class  of  heroes, — the  good  bandits  of  the  story 
books.  But  I  have  not  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet 
any  of  them  in  real  life. 

Not  many  months  passed  ere  my  mind  was  teeming 
with  sundry  and  diverse  accounts  of  charitable  bandits 
whose  habits  in  general  were  to  rescue  poor  wayfarers 
and  send  them  on  their  journey  with  money  in  their 
purses.  For  the  sake  of  variety  a  few  bad  robbers  were 
sometimes  thrown  in;  but  sooner  or  later  their  chief 
would  always  emerge  when  they  least  expected  it  and 
compelled  them  to  return  their  dishonest  gains;  and  the 
end  of  the  story  was  not  reached  until  they  repented 
of  their  mode  of  life  and  actually  reformed,  though,  in 
some  cases,  a  term  in  prison  was  necessary  to  settle  them 
in  their  new  purpose. 

Another  class  of  tales  related  to  Sunday-school 
children  and  how  they  went  among  the  by-ways  and 
hedges  to  compel  the  less  fortunate  ones  to  come  in. 
One  of  my  stories  described  a  child  left  alone  in  the 


EARLY  POETIC  TRAINING  S7 

world  by  the  death  of  both  parents.  In  due  time  this 
little  girl  was  adopted  by  a  lady  whose  daughter  was 
the  wife  of  a  sea  captain,  who  had  gone  on  a  voyage; 
and  just  as  they  were  sitting  down  to  supper  one  evening 
he  returned.  But  there  was  also  a  stranger  with  him, 
and  he  proved  to  be  an  uncle  to  the  orphan  girl;  and 
though  he  took  her  home  to  live  with  him,  she  never 
forgot  her  former  protector  and  friend. 

Many  quiet  evenings  I  would  sit  alone  in  the  twilight 
and  repeat  all  the  poems  and  passages  of  Scripture  that 
I  knew.  Thus,  ten  long  summers  passed  and  I  was 
still  longing  for  an  education,  though  my  mother  taught 
me  many  interesting  things  at  home  and  read  a  great 
deal  to  me.  It  was  about  four  years  since  that  beautiful 
evening,  when  I  knelt  beside  my  grandmother's  rocking 
chair  and  repeated  over  and  over  the  humble  petition, 
"  Dear  Lord,  please  show  me  how  I  can  learn  like  other 
children.0 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PROMISE  OF  AN  EDUCATION 

I  OCCASIONALLY  went  to  school  with  the  chil- 
dren of  our  neighborhood^  and  one  afternoon  in 
November,  1834,  mother  met  me  at  the  gate 
and  I  heard  a  paper  rustling  in  her  hand. 
My  first  thought  was  that  she  had  a  letter  announcing 
the  death  or  illness  of  some  friend.  Instead  of  that, 
she  produced  a  circular  from  the  New  York  Institu- 
tion for  the  Blind,  sent  her  by  an  acquaintance,  in 
fact  by  the  same  man  who  had  given  me  the  little 
book  describing  the  rainbow  already  mentioned.  As 
she  read  the  announcement,  I  clapped  my  hands  and 
exclaimed, 

"O,  thank  God,  he  has  answered  my  prayer,  just 
as  I  knew  He  would." 

That  was  the  happiest  day  of  my  life;  for  the  dark 
intellectual  maze  in  which  I  had  been  living  seemed  to 
yield  to  hope  and  the  promise  of  the  light  that  was  about 
to  dawn.  Not  that  I  craved  physical  vision,  for  it  was 
mental  enlightenment  that  I  sought;  and  now  my  quest 
seemed  almost  actually  rewarded.  The  New  York 
Institution  was  a  foreign  name  to  me,  but  it  was 
enough  to  know  that  some  place  existed  where  I 
might  be  taught;  and  my  star  of  promise  even  then 
was  becoming  a  great  orb  of  light, 
38 


MOTHER  OF   FANNY  CROSBY. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  AN  EDUCATION  39 

My  mother  was  fully  conscious  of  my  joy,  but  to 
test  me  she  said, 

"What  will  you  do  without  me?  You  have  never 
been  away  from  home  more  than  two  weeks  at  one  time 
in  your  whole  life." 

This  presented  a  new  idea:  I  had  not  thought  of  the 
separation  from  her;  and  for  a  moment  I  wavered. 
Then  I  answered  as  bravely  as  I  could, 

"Much  as  I  love  you,  mother,  I  am  willing  to  make 
any  sacrifice  to  acquire  an  education."      And  she  replied, 

"You  are  right,  my  child,  and  I  am  very  glad  you 
have  the  chance  to  go."  But  her  voice  betrayed  the 
tremor  in  her  heart.     How  wonderful  is  a  mother's  love. 

Nearly  a  month  before  I  was  fifteen  years  old,  on 
March  3rd,  1835,  I  made  another  journey  to  New  York, 
one  that-  was  more  pleasant  and  fruitful  than  the  first 
had  been.  On  the  morning  that  I  was  to  leave  home 
mother  wakened  me  from  a  sound  sleep  and  told  me 
the  stage  was  at  the  door.  The  thought  of  going  away 
thoroughly  unnerved  me;  I  dressed  with  trembling 
fingers;  hastily  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  breakfast;  swal- 
lowed my  sobs;  and  then  quickly  hurried  from  the  house 
lest  I  might  break  down  completely  if  I  waited  to  bid 
mother  good-bye.  You  can  imagine  my  feelings  as 
the  stage  rumbled  on  and  on  toward  Norwalk,  where 
we  were  to  take  the  steamboat  for  New  York.  For 
more  than  an  hcur  I  uttered  not  a  word,  although  the 
kind  lady  by  whom  I  was  accompanied  tried  her  best 
to  cheer  me  and  to  draw  me  into  conversation.  My 
suffering  was  indeed  intense,  and  I  would  have  given 


40  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

half  my  kingdom  at  that  moment,  could  the  gift  have 
bought  me  the  power  to  shed  a  few  tears. 

Finally,  my  companion  turned  to  me  and  said, 
"Fanny,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  New  York,  we  will 
get  out  at  the  next  station,  and  take  the  returning  stage 
home.  Your  mother  will  be  lonesome  without  you, 
anyway." 

It  was  a  sore  temptation  to  return.  I  hesitated  for 
a  time,  but,  after  a  good  cry,  I  felt  better  and  said, 

"No,  I  will  go  on  to  New  York." 

That  decision  I  never  for  a  moment  regretted,  for, 
had  I  returned  to  my  mother  that  morning  I  would  have 
cast  away  my  pearl  of  great  price,  for  it  is  not  probable 
that  I  should  ever  have  been  brave  enough  to  start  again 
for  the  Institution. 

We  took  the  steamboat  at  Norwalk,  and  its  quiet 
motion  helped  to  soothe  my  mind  after  the  distracting 
experiences  of  the  morning;  and  so  later  in  the  afternoon 
we  floated  gently  into  the  harbor  of  the  great  city,  my 
adopted  home. 

For  three  days  we  remained  with  friends;  and  on 
Saturday  morning  March  7,  1835,  we  were  driven  to  the 
New  York  Institution  for  the  Blind  on  Ninth  Avenue. 
There  everyone  treated  me  as  though  I  was  kith  and  kin 
to  them;  but  I  missed  the  companions  of  my  childhood, 
the  dear  lady,  who  had  accompanied  me,  and  most  of 
all  my  mother,  who  seemed  to  be  far  away,  a  thousand 
miles  or  more.  When  evening  came  they  took  me  to 
the  little  room  in  which  I  was  to  sleep;  everything  was 
strange,  and  nothing  in  the  place  where  I  was  accustomed 


THE   PROMISE   OF  AN  EDUCATION  41 

to  find  it  at  home, — but  I  bravely  tried  to  think  only  of 
pleasant  things.  It  was  no  use,  however,  for  I  could 
not  keep  the  curl  from  coming  to  my  upper  lip;  I  sat 
there  on  my  trunk,  a  forlorn  being  indeed,  and  sighed 
heavily.  Our  matron,  a  motherly  Quaker  woman,  put 
her  arms  about  me  and  said, 

"Fanny,  I  guess  thee  has  never  been  away  from  home 
before." 

I  replied  meekly,  "No  ma'am,  and  please  excuse  me, 
I  must  cry,"  and  then  burst  forth  the  flood  of  tears  that 
I  had  tried  so  hard  to  restrain.  When  the  fit  of  weeping 
had  passed,  one  of  my  fellow  pupils  came  and  sat  down 
with  me  on  the  trunk;  and  for  a  whole  hour  we  talked 
about  everything  but  home. 

By  the  next  morning  the  worst  homesickness  had 
passed,  and  I  was  very  much  interested  in  all  that  was 
going  on  in  the  Institution.  At  breakfast  our  beloved 
superintendent,  Dr.  John  D.  Russ,  spoke  kind  words  of 
encouragement  to  me.  Later  in  the  day  he  taught 
a  class  of  us  children  the  Scripture  lesson  for  the  week; 
and  when  he  had  finished  that,  invited  us  to  remain 
while  he  read  from  the  poems  of  Lord  Byron. 

Our  superintendent  was  a  great  benefactor  of  the 
blind.  He  invented  the  phonetic  alphabet  and  methods 
of  printing  raised  characters  and  maps  that  are  used 
by  the  blind  to  this  day.  He  came  to  the  Institution 
just  after  it  was  founded,  and  gave  his  services  without 
any  pay  for  two  years.  It  was  very  difficult  to  make  the 
people  think  that  those  who  could  not  see  might  be 
educated;  and  Mr.  Samuel  Wood,  who  was  the  founder 


42  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

of  our  school,  had  to  prove  by  actual  tests  that  it  could 
really  be  done.  He  was  so  successful  that  several  wealthy 
men,  who  had  before  refused  to  help,  now  generously 
came  to  his  aid. 

Fortunately  for  me,  our  teachers  read  us  some  of 
the  best  of  modern  poets;  and  they  inspired  me  to  more 
determined  efforts  to  improve  whatever  little  gift  I 
possessed  by  nature.  Some  of  my  schoolmates,  how- 
ever, took  my  crude  efforts  as  models  to  be  imitated; 
and  two  or  three  of  them  actually  tried  to  compose 
poetry  on  their  own  account.  From  time  to  time  they 
would  make  sorry  work  of  meters  and  rhymes;  and 
almost  invariably,  sooner  or  later,  they  would  come 
to  me  for  aid  with  the  careful  injunction,  "You  musn't 
tell  anyone  for  all  the  world."  Thus  I  was  sworn  to 
secrecy;  they  were  admitted  to  the  poetic  workshop, 
and  actual  labor  began.  We  fitted  and  joined;  smoothed 
and  planed;  measured  and  moulded,  until  by  the  joint 
effort  of  three  or  four  people  something  was  produced 
that  our  childish  fancy  took  to  be  good  verses.  They 
were  not;  and  years  afterward  all  of  us  had  many  a 
hearty  laugh  over  these  youthful  experiments. 

A  few  of  our  teachers  at  the  New  York  Institution 
were  very  strict  with  us  and  saw  to  it  that  no  unnecessary 
conversation  occurred  between  boys  and  girls.  This 
we  did  not  like, — and  I  was  one  of  the  first  to  revolt. 
We  knew  that  one  of  the  faculty  of  the  Institution 
was  taking  some  notice  of  one  of  the  lady  teachers; 
and  to  even  accounts  with  them  I  wrote  the  following 
lines: 


THE  PROMISE  OF  AN  EDUCATION  43 

"Say,  dearest,  wilt  thou  roam  with  me 
To  Scotland's  bonny  bowers, 
Where  purest  fountains  gently  glide, 
And  bloom  the  sweetest  flowers. 

"Ah,  Martha,  may  we  soon  retire 
Unto  some  pleasant  cot, 
Where  love  and  joy  forever  dwell 
And  sorrow  is  forgot. 

"There  in  the  gentle  summer  eve 

We'll  watch  the  murmuring  streams; 
The  moon  shall  fondly  cheer  our  hearts 
With  its  majestic  beams. 

"Then,  let  the  wintry  blasts  appear, 
And  all  the  flowers  decay; 
We'll  sit  beside  the  cheerful  fire, 
And  sing  dull  care  away." 

Not  many  months  after  my  verses  were  written  the 
unpopular  teacher  and  his  Martha  did  as  I  above  sug- 
gested, and  we  were  rid  of  their  unwelcome  attentions. 

We  used  to  read  the  Bible,  "Pilgrim's  Progress," 
"The  Ancient  Mariner"  and  other  literary  classics  in 
the  raised  letters;  but  our  daily  lessons  were  received 
directly  from  our  teachers,  and  they  had  an  excellent 
plan  of  instruction.  Selections  would  be  read  to  us  two 
or  three  times,  and  then  we  were  all  expected  to  be  able 
to  answer  minute  questions  about  them  in  the  language 
of  the  original.  The  following  morning  we  were  required 
to  tell  the  story  again,  this  time,  however,  in  our  own 


44  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

words.  By  this  means  our  memory  and  our  power  of 
thinking  were  both  cultivated  to  such  an  extent  that  I 
I  can  recite  verbatim  most  of  " Brown's  Grammar"  as 
well  now  as  the  day  I  left  school.  My  favorite  studies 
were  English,  history,  philosophy,  and  the  small  portion 
of  science  that  was  then  taught. 

In  the  study  of  arithmetic  three  types  were  used, 
and  by  placing  them  in  a  wooden  frame  in  different 
positions  they  represented  certain  figures.  My  first 
lesson  consisted  of  the  multiplication  tables;  but  you 
may  be  sure  I  was  a  very  dull  pupil;  and  two  days  after 
this  assignment,  Dr.  Russ  came  in  and  said  to  the  girl 
who  was  appointed  to  instruct  me, 

"Well,  Anna,  has  your  pupil  learned  the  multipli- 
cation tables  yet?" 

"Not  quite,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  superintendent,  "I  shall 
come  again  tomorrow;  and  if  Fanny  Crosby  does  not 
know  them  at  that  time,  I  shall  put  her  on  the  mantle." 
I  took  his  jest  in  earnest;  and  the  next  day  all  of  the 
tables  were  learned.  Then  we  went  on  as  far  as  long 
division  and  there  my  patience  failed.  I  simply  could 
not  learn  arithmetic,  although  I  tried  my  best;  finally, 
in  utter  despair,  I  said  to  my  teacher, 

"  I  suppose  you  regard  me  as  a  very  inattentive  pupil." 
To  my  surprise,  she  replied, 

"No,  I  do  not,  for  you  can  never  learn  mathematics. 
Let  us  go  to  the  superintendent  and  tell  him  so!"  He 
was  glad  to  excuse  me  from  other  requirements,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  I  should  take  an  extra  study.    From 


THE   PROMISE    OF    AN    EDUCATION  4.5 

that  hour  I  was  a  new  creature:  what  a  nightmare  I 
was  escaping!  I  thoroughly  appreciated  a  parody  in 
one  of  our  arithmetics,  which  runs  as  follows: 

"Multiplication  is  vexation, 
Division  is  as  bad; 
The  rule  of  three  puzzles  me, 
And  fractions  make  me  mad." 

As  a  pleasant  contrast  I  delight  to  recall  our  singing 
classes.  A  few  months  after  my  arrival  at  the  Institution 
Mr.  Anthony  Reiff  became  our  teacher;  and  he  remained 
there  for  more  than  forty  years  as  a  faithful,  efficient 
and  earnest  instructor.  We  loved  him  dearly,  and  to 
him  many  of  his  former  pupils  looked  back  and  called 
him  the  master  of  their  youth. 

One  beautiful,  crisp  November  morning  in  1837 
we  laid  the  corner  stone  of  the  new  Institution  building. 
The  mayor,  common  council,  and  many  prominent 
citizens  came  to  attend  the  exercises,  as  they  always  did 
on  special  occasions.  Mr.  Reiff  composed  a  march 
to  some  words  I  had  written,  part  of  which  I  now  recall, — 

"This  day  may  every  bosom  feel 
A  thrill  of  pleasure  and  delight; 
Its  scenes  will  in  our  memories  dwell, 
When  Time  shall  wing  his  rapid  flight. 

"May  the  great  Being  who  surveys 
The  countless  acts  by  mortals  done, 
Behold  with  an  approving  eye 
The  structure  which  is  now  begun." 


46  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Before  1840  my  friends  had  nearly  spoiled  me  with 
their  praises.  At  least  I  began  to  feel  my  own  importance 
as  a  poet  a  little  too  much;  and  so  the  superintendent, 
Mr.  Jones,  thought  something  ought  to  be  done  to  curb 
such  rising  vanity.  One  morning  after  breakfast  I  was 
summoned  to  the  office ;  and,  thinking  he  would  ask  me 
for  a  poem,  or  perhaps  give  me  a  word  of  commendation, 
as  he  sometimes  did,  I  obeyed  at  once, — but  instead  of 
more  praise  and  a  new  commission  to  write  verses  I 
found  a  plain  talk  awaiting  me. 

It  was  an  impressive  occasion,  and  I  remember  what 
Mr.  Jones  said  almost  word  for  word : 

"Fanny,  I  am  sorry  you  have  allowed  yourself  to 
be  carried  away  by  what  others  have  said  about  your 
verses.  True,  you  have  written  a  number  of  poems  of 
real  merit ;  but  how  far  do  they  fall  short  of  the  standard 
that  you  might  attain.  Shun  a  flatterer,  Fanny,  as  you 
would  a  viper;  for  no  true  friend  would  deceive  you  with 
words  of  flattery.  Remember  that  whatever  talent  you 
possess  belongs  wholly  to  God;  and  that  you  ought  to 
give  Him  the  credit  for  all  that  you  do. " 

Mr.  Jones  was  a  fine  teacher  of  the  young;  and  he 
knew  just  what  was  best  in  my  particular  case.  After 
giving  me  a  little  more  advice,  he  said, 

"Now,  we  will  reconstruct  the  fabric, — but  on  a 
different  plan.  You  have  real  poetic  talent;  yet  it  is 
crude  and  undeveloped;  and  if  your  talent  ever  amounts 
to  much,  you  must  polish  and  smooth  your  verses  so 
that  they  may  be  of  more  value.  Store  your  mind  with 
useful  knowledge;  and  the  time  may  come,  sooner  or 


THE   PROMISE   OF    AN   EDUCATION  47 

later,  when  you  will  yet  attain  the  goal  toward  which 
you  have  already  made  some  progress." 

Then  the  dear  man  said  to  me,  "Fanny,  have  I 
wounded  your  feelings?"  Something  within  me  bore 
witness  that  Mr.  Jones  spoke  the  truth ;  and  so  I  answered, 

'"No,  sir.  On  the  contrary,  you  have  talked  to  me 
like  a  father,  and  I  thank  you  very  much  for  it." 

In  years  afterward  I  gradually  came  to  realize  that 
his  advice  was  worth  more  than  the  price  of  rubies; 
and  if  I  am  justified  in  drawing  any  analogy  from  my 
own  experience,  I  would  say  that  a  little  kindly  advice 
is  better  than  a  great  deal  of  scolding.  For  a  single 
word,  if  spoken  in  a  friendly  spirit,  may  be  sufficient  to 
turn  one  from  a  dangerous  error.  In  the  same  way,  a 
single  syllable,  if  spoken  from  a  hard  heart,  may  be  just 
enough  to  drive  another  from  the  true  path.  This 
principle  has  been  the  foundation  of  my  work  among 
the  missions  of  New  York.  I  find  that  the  confidence 
of  the  sinner  is  all  that  one  needs  for  the  beginning  of 
the  work  of  grace.  A  man  can  be  won  if  he  knows  that 
somebody  trusts  him;  and  I  firmly  believe  that  faith 
and  love  go  hand  in  hand  through  the  dark  places  of 
this  world,  seeking  the  lost,  and  we  not  infrequently 
find  them  where  we  least  expect  them  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INSPIRATION    FOR  WORK 

NOT  many  weeks  after  the  interview  with  Dr. 
Jones,  he  called  me  to  the  office  one  day 
and  said, 
''You  are  not  to  write  a  line  of  poetry 
for  three  months." 

This  decision  came  as  a  bolt  of  lightning  out  of  a 
clear  sky;  and  I  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment, 
but  for  six  weeks  he  resolutely  enforced  his  command 
to  the  very  letter,  and  at  the  end  of  this  period  I  fell 
into  a  state  of  listlessness.  My  teachers  soon  noticed 
that  my  lessons  were  unlearned,  the  result  of  which 
was  a  third  summons  before  the  superintendent.  Dr. 
Jones  said, 

"Fanny,  what  is  the  trouble  with  your  lessons? 
The  teachers  report  that  you  do  not  recite  as  well  as 
you  did  during  the  last  term.  Are  you  ill?"  Before 
he  had  fairly  finished  questioning  me,  my  reply  was 
ready  because  I  had  been  expecting  just  such  an  inter- 
view, and  so  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what  to  say.  I 
replied, 

"I  find  it  impossible  to  keep  my  mind  on  my  lessons, 
for  poetry  occupies  my  thoughts  in  spite  of  all  efforts 
to  think  of  other  things.     I  cannot  help  it." 

"Well,"  said   the  superintendent,   "write  as  much 
48 


INSPIRATION  FOR   WORK  40 


as  you  like,  but  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  the  morning 
lectures." 

They  had  been  trying  me.  In  those  days  phrenology 
was  in  high  favor  and  as  a  last  attempt  to  find  out  whether 
I  was  a  "born  poet"  or  not,  the  " science"  was  brought 
to  bear  upon  my  case,  when  a  favorable  opportunity 
came.  This  was  very  soon,  the  occasion  being  a  visit 
of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Combe  of  Boston  for  the  purpose 
of  examining  the  craniums  of  some  of  our  pupils.  There 
was  one  boy  among  them  who  could  listen  to  two  stories, 
sing  a  song,  and  solve  a  hard  problem  in  mathematics 
at  the  same  time, — at  least  it  was  said  he  could  do  all 
that.  When  the  doctor  come  to  him,  he  exclaimed, 
"Here  is  a  great  mathematician;  and  some  day  you  will 
hear  from  him."  Daniel  Webster  was  always  greatly 
admired  for  his  brain  power,  but  he  said  of  himself 
that  he  could  think  of  only  one  thing  at  once.  But  our 
pupil  was  unlike  him  in  this  respect,  and  also  in  one 
other, — he  never  did  become  famous,  as  the  phrenologist 
predicted  he  would. 

When  Dr.  Combe  came  to  look  at  my  head  he  re- 
marked, "And  here  is  a  poetess;  give  her  every  possible 
advantage.  Read  the  best  books  to  her,  and  teach  her 
to  appreciate  the  best  poetry."  This  was  certainly 
welcome  news  to  me,  and  it  must  have  had  some  little 
effect  upon  my  teachers;  for  they  now  encouraged  me 
in  all  the  ways  wherein  they  had  before  tried  to  dis- 
hearten me. 

Mr.  Hamilton  Murray,  who  at  that  time  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Board  of  Managers  of  the  Institution,  soon 


50  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

took  me  into  his  charge;  and  I  became  known  to  my 
friends  as  his  "little  protege"."  His  knowledge  of  the 
classics  was  broad,  his  natural  talents  superior,  and  his 
command  of  the  mother  tongue  excellent.  He  read  to 
me  from  the  classics  by  the  hour  and  advised  me  to 
commit  long  passages  to  memory;  and  frequently  he 
gave  me  the  lines  of  favorite  poets  to  imitate.  Most  of 
these,  of  course,  were  means  to  an  end ;  and  consequently 
were  soon  forgotten.  I  can,  in  fact,  recall  but  one, 
a  scrap  of  verse  in  the  style  of  Nathaniel  P.  Willis,  whom 
I  was  told  to  imitate  in  such  a  way  that  "it  cannot  be 
told  from  his  original  poem."  The  specimen  from 
Willis  is  called  "Morning,"  and  runs  as  follows, — 

"O  could  we  wake  from  sorrow, 
Were  it  all  a  changeful  dream  like  this: 
To  cast  aside  like  an  untimely  garment  of  the  morn; 
Could  the  long  fever  of  the  soul  be  cooled 
By  a  sweet  breath  from  nature, 
How  lightly  were  the  spirit  reconciled." 

My  parody  is: 

"O  could  we  with  the  gloomy  shades  of  night 
Chase  the  dark  clouds  of  sorrow  from  the  brow; 
Could  pure  affection  feel  no  withering  blight, 
But  heart  to  heart  in  one  sweet  tie  be  linked, 
How  were  the  soul  content  to  fold  her  wings, 
And  dwell  forever  in  such  loveliness." 

The  political  campaigns  in  the  years  between  1840 
and  1850  called  forth  a  great  amount  of  versifying.    In 


INSPIRATION   FOR  WORK  51 

the  autumn  of  the  first-named  year  General  Harrison 
was  elected  to  the  presidency.  Everybody  loved  the 
hero  of  Tippecanoe;  and  the  opposing  party  hunted 
high  and  low,  but  they  could  find  not  one  thing  in  his 
record  that  might  be  used  against  him.  He  was  the 
candidate  of  the  Whig  party;  and  I  was  an  ardent  Demo- 
crat. One  of  the  interesting  ditties  used  during  the 
campaign  is  now  remembered  by  many, 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  farmer, 
Whose  cabin's  in  the  West, 
Of  all  the  men  for  President 
The  wisest  and  the  best? 
To  put  him  in  the  Capitol 
We've  found  a  capital  way,- 
O  we'll  sing  our  Harrison  song  by  night, 
And  beat  his  foes  by  day." 

In  my  zeal  for  the  Democratic  party,  I  felt  it  proper  to 
change  the  last  line  into 

And  scratch  his  eyes  by  day. 

Perhaps  the  best-remembered  song  is  "Tippecanoe 
and  Tyler,  too,"  the  first  lines  of  which  are, 

"Oh  what  has  caused  this  great  commotion, 
motion,  motion, 
Our  country  through  ? 
It  is  the  ball  that's  rolling  on 
For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  too." 

But  the  hero  of  Tippecanoe  lived  but  a  single  month 
to  serve  his  country  as  president.     Evidently  the  new 


52  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

surroundings  at  Washington  did  not  agree  with  him; 
and  he  passed  away  on  April  4,  1841.  In  memory  of 
the  sad  event  I  wrote  some  eulogistic  stanzas,  which 
have  already  been  mentioned,  in  connection  with  my 
grandfather's  eight-mile  walk.  As  this  poem  was  the 
best  that  I  had  written  previous  to  1841,  I  quote  it  in 
part:— 

"He  is  gone:  in  death's  cold  arms  he  sleeps. 
Our  President,  our  hero  brave, 
While  fair  Columbia  o'er  him  weeps, 
And  chants  a  requiem  at  his  grave; 
Her  sanguine  hopes  are  blighted  now, 
And  weeds  of  sorrow  veil  her  brow. 

"Ah,  Indiana,  where  is  he, 
Who  once  thy  sons  to  battle  led? 
The  red  man  quailed  beneath  his  eye, 
And  from  his  camp  disheartened  fled. 
With  steady  hand  he  bent  the  bow 
And  laid  the  warlike  savage  low. 

"The  forest  with  his  praises  rung, 
His  fame  was  echoed  far  and  wide, — 
With  loud  hurrah  his  name  was  sung, 
Columbia's  hero  and  her  pride. 
The  tuneful  harp  is  now  unstrung 
And  on  the  drooping  willow  hung." 

One  afternoon  at  the  commencement  of  our  summer 
vacation  our  superintendent  came  in  and  said  that  Presi- 
dent Tyler,  who  succeeded  General  Harrison,  was  in 


INSPIRATION  FOR  WORK  53 

the  reception  room;  and  that  the  Mayor  and  Common 
Council  were  with  him.  Well  did  I  know  what  that 
meant;  and  said,  "Now,  give  me  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
and  I  shall  have  the  best  welcome  that  I  can  prepare 
in  so  short  a  time."  I  recited  my  poem;  then  sang 
a  piece;  and  concluded  by  reading  a  song,  which  I  had 
composed  for  the  previous  Fourth  of  July,  all  of  which 
I  remember  is  two  lines  of  the  chorus, 

"  And  this  the  glad  song  of  our  Nation  shall  be, 
Hurrah  for  John  Tyler  and  liberty's  tree." 

As  memory  rolls  back  the  curtain  of  the  years  I 
behold  again  the  Institution  with  its  spacious  halls  that 
ring  with  mirth  and  song,  its  school-rooms  rilled  with 
happy  hearts  and  smiling  faces;  the  chapel  where  at 
morn  and  eve  and  on  Sabbath  days  we  gathered  for 
religious  worship;  and  the  beautiful  playgrounds,  from 
which  the  clear  sound  of  the  bell  called  us  from  our  fun 
to  our  duty, — but  a  shade  of  sadness  steals  over  me, 
and  I  ask, 

"Where  are  the  friends  of  my  youth, 
Oh,  where  are  those  treasured  ones  gone  ?" 

Instantly  the  names  of  Cynthia  Bullock,  Catherine 
Kennedy,  Mary  Mattox,  Anna  Smith,  Imogene  Hart, 
and  Alice  Holmes  are  on  my  lips.  They  were  among 
my  earlier  associates  and  their  voices  come  back  mingled 
with  sweet  memories  of  the  sunny  past:  the  murmur  of 
the  afternoon  breeze;  the  echo  of  the  woodland;  and  the 
quietness  of  the  twilight.     And  now  I  fancy  that  we  are 


56  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Part  of  the  last  chorus,  as  it  was  sung  to  the  tune  of 
"Auld  Lang  Syne,"  follows: 

"Should  ancient  customs  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind? 
In  what  our  fathers  loved  so  well 
Can  we  no  pleasure  find? 
They  weave  a  charm  around  the  heart, 
That  cannot  pass  away, 
Thanksgiving  Day,  we  love  its  name, 
The  dear  Thanksgiving  Day. 

"A  social  band  are  gathering  now 
Around  the  blazing  hearth, 
And  gaily  rings  their  merry  laugh 
And  songs  of  artless  mirth. 
Bright  moments  of  unsullied  joy, 
Oh,  could  ye  longer  stay! 
Thanksgiving  Day,  we  love  its  name, 
The  dear  Thanksgiving  Day." 


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CHAPTER  VII 
THE    DAILY    TASK 

NEW  York  City  has  grown  wonderfully  in 
many  ways  since  1835,  and  the  advance  in 
knowledge  and  education  has  been  no  less 
rapid  than  its  material  prosperity.  I  well 
remember  the  time  when  Kipp  and  Brown's  stages 
were  the  sole  means  of  "rapid  transit"  in  the  city; 
and  they  only  went  up  as  far  as  Twenty-sixth  Street 
unless  by  special  order.  Our  buildings  were  situated 
on  Thirty-fourth  Street  and  Ninth  Avenue  in  the  midst 
of  a  delightful  suburban  district  in  plain  view  of  the 
Hudson  River  and  the  lawns  and  fields  which  gently 
sloped  towards  the  river. 

The  rising  hour  at  the  Institution  was  half-past 
five  o'clock  during  the  summer  when  I  first  went  there; 
but  about  1837  it  was  changed  to  six,  and  some  of  us 
found  even  that  hour  too  early  to  suit  our  inclinations. 
But  unless  we  were  able  to  give  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
being  late  at  morning  prayers  we  were  denied  our  break- 
fast as  a  penalty  for  our  tardiness.  After  breakfast  at 
seven  o'clock  we  enjoyed  a  lecture  on  mental  and  moral 
philosophy,  and  the  rest  of  the  morning  and  afternoon 
was  taken  up  with  recitations  and  singing  classes  until 
half-past  four.  The  evening  was  passed  in  listening  to 
selections  from  standard  authors. 

Sometimes  during  the  breakfast  hour  they  read  to 
G7 


58  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

us  from  the  newspapers,  or  we  talked  over  the  daring 
exploit  of  one  of  our  own  number,  such  as  the  killing 
of  a  mouse  by  a  timid  girl;  in  fact,  if  any  one  of  us  did 
an  act  out  of  the  ordinary  we  heard  of  it  at  the  breakfast 
table,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  was  concerned  in  many 
of  the  practical  jokes. 

We  had  a  book  in  the  Institution,  generally  called 
"a  shoe-book,"  but  I  called  it  after  the  name  of  our 
shoemaker,  ''Simpson  on  the  Understanding."  In  the 
evening  various  books  were  read  to  us  by  students  from 
a  theological  seminary  in  the  city;  and  after  they  had 
finished  "Stevens'  Travels  in  the  Holy  Land"  one  morn- 
ing a  girl  came  to  me  and  asked  what  I  thought  would 
be  read  next.  I  replied,  "Very  likely  they  will  read 
'Simpson  on  the  Understanding,'  which  is  a  fine  book; 
but  you  had  better  go  and  ask  the  superintendent."  This 
she  did,  and  with  a  merry  laugh  he  showed  her  the  shoe- 
book,  adding,  "That  is  some  of  Fanny's  work,  I  know." 

We  had  a  postman  whom  I  used  to  tease  in  every 
possible  manner.  I  had  never  spoken  with  him  in  my 
life;  but  I  would  hide  the  pen  and  ink  and  his  letter 
book,  which  annoyed  him  so  much  that  he  was  anxious 
to  see  what  sort  of  a  being  could  be  so  mischievous. 
Once,  while  it  was  raining  tremendously,  I  wrote  the 
following  lines,  and  placed  them  where  he  would  be 
sure  to  find  them: 

"Postman,  come  not  yet, 

Wait  till  the  storm  is  past, 
Or  you'll  a  ducking  get; 
The  rain  is  falling  fast. 


THE   DAILY  TASK  59 

You  have  a  new  white  hat, 
As  I  have  heard  them  say; 

Then,  postman,  think  of  that! 
Don't  venture  out  today! 

''Presumptuous  man,  in  vain 

To  stay  your  course  I  sing; 
In  spite  of  wind  or  rain 

The  letters  you  will  bring; 
Though  you  are  such  a  dunce 

I  will  not  cruel  be, 
But  ask  our  nurse  at  once 

To  make  some  flax-seed  tea." 

To  even  scores  with  me,  they  sometimes  returned 
a  joke  at  my  expense.  For  example,  the  superintendent 
one  evening,  when  I  returned  home  late  from  a  lecture, 
informed  me  that  there  was  a  "Bridgeport  Farmer" 
in  the  house,  who  had  come  to  visit  me.  Thinking  one 
of  my  friends  had  actually  arrived  during  my  absence, 
I  went  to  bed,  joyful  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  him 
early  the  following  morning.  To  this  end  I  arranged 
my  toilet  with  unusual  care;  I  went  to  the  office  to  inquire 
after  my  guest;  and  to  my  vexation  the  superintendent 
handed  me  a  copy  of  the  "Fanner,"  a  newspaper  pub- 
lished in  Bridgeport,  exclaiming,  "Here  he  is;  bid  him 
good-morning." 

Once  when  I  had  infringed  upon  a  rule  the  superin- 
tendent called  me  to  him,  and  said  that  I  must  retire  to 
my  room.     I  went  up  stairs  singing, 


60  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"My  glad  soul  mounted  higher 
In  a  chariot  of  fire; 
And  the  moon  was  under  my  feet." 

He  at  once  called  me  back,  saying,  "You  are  too  willing. 
Don't  break  any  more  rules !" 

Nor  did  my  daring  stop  short  of  the  Governor  of 
New  York,  William  H.  Seward,  who  came  to  inspect 
our  buildings.  I  thought  it  would  be  a  capital  idea  to 
get  him  to  pick  up  my  ball  of  yarn,  for  I  happened  to 
be  knitting  when  he  called;  and  so  when  he  was  just 
a  little  way  from  me,  I  managed  to  drop  the  ball  on  the 
floor.  The  gracious  man  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to 
me  with  a  good  word  of  encouragement.  But  one  of 
the  teachers  saw  what  I  had  done  and  laughingly  told 
Mr.  Chamberlain,  who  remarked,  "Oh,  don't  say  any- 
thing about  it  to  Fanny,  for  we  never  know  what  she 
will  do  next."  Yet  I  must  have  been  more  prompt  at 
playing  jokes  than  at  learning  my  lessons,  for  Mr. 
Hamilton  Murray  very  often  waited  several  days  before 
I  would  give  him  the  piece  of  verse  I  had  promised  him. 
Once  when  his  patience  was  exhausted  by  a  long  delay, 
he  came  to  me  and  said, 

"Fanny,  I  am  coming  up  in  the  morning.  Will  you 
have  that  blank  verse  ready?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  but  it  was  not  ready  when 
he  came  for  it. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Murray,  "now  we  will  come  to 
business,  no  blank  verse,  no  dinner."  His  threat  had  the 
desired  effect;  the  verse  was  ready  in  less  than  an  hour. 


THE  DAILY  TASK  61 

Thus  these  trivial  incidents  helped  to  make  up  the 
joy  of  life;  and  I  think  the  poet  Keble  was  certainly  right, 
when  he  wrote, 

"The  triviaj  round,  the  common  task. 
Will  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask, 
Room  to  deny  ourselves,  a  road 
To  bring  us  daily  nearer  God." 

We  had  many  important  days,  when  famous  visitors 
honored  us  by  coming  to  see  our  work.  One  of  the 
first  of  these  that  I  remember  was  Count  Henri  Gratien 
Bertrand,  the  faithful  field-marshal  of  the  great  Na- 
poleon, and  his  constant  companion  during  his  exile 
at  Saint  Helena.  After  the  death  of  his  general,  Mar- 
shal Bertrand  accompanied  his  remains  to  France, 
where  he  was  forgiven  by  the  party  which  had  come 
into  power. 

A  part  of  the  poem  which  I  recited  in  honor  of  Mar- 
shal Bertrand  contained  a  reference  to  the  death  of 
Napoleon  at  Saint  Helena, 

"When  by  those  he  loved  deserted, 
Thine  was  still  a  faithful  heart; 
Thou  wert  proud  to  share  the  exile 
Of  the  hapless  Bonaparte. 

"Like  an  angel,  whispering  comfort, 
Still  in  sickness  thou  wert  nigh; 
And  when  life's  last  scenes  were  over, 
Tears  of  anguish  dimmed  thine  eye." 


62  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  did  you  know  that  I  sat 
with  my  head  in  my  hands  and  wept  as  the  life  of  the 
great  general  slowly  ebbed  away?" 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  I  replied,  "but  described  the 
circumstance  from  imagination."  Then  he  gave  me 
a  box  containing  a  piece  of  the  willow  that  grew  above 
Napoleon's  grave.  "  God  bless  you,"  he  said  in  a  husky 
voice,  "how  I  wish  you  could  have  known  the  Emperor!" 

I  always  admired  the  courage  of  Napoleon,  though 
I  could  not  love  him  as  a  man;  and  so  the  devotion  of 
his  faithful  marshal  touched  my  heart.  Personally 
the  visit  of  Ole  Bull  was  more  pleasing  to  me,  for  I  love 
music  better  than  the  red  deeds  of  war.  For  an  hour 
the  noted  Norwegian  violinist  played  from  the  great 
masters,  and  held  everyone  of  us  spellbound  while  he 
rendered  with  marvellous  sympathy  and  power  all  of 
the  selections  he  loved  so  dearly. 

The  general  instruction  of  the  blind  was  a  new  idea 
to  most  persons  previous  to  1850,  and,  on  this  account, 
we  had  many  curious  visitors,  but  we  were  always  glad 
to  show  everyone  who  came  what  we  could  do.  As  it 
was  one  of  my  duties  to  conduct  them  through  the  build- 
ings, a  good  many  peculiar  questions  were  asked  me. 
Once  a  lady  said, 

"There  is  one  place  I  would  like  so  much  to  see." 

"What  is  that  ?"  I  asked,  for  we  had  been  the  round 
of  all  that  I  thought  of  interest  to  strangers. 

"Why  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  your  children  eat; 
how  do  they  find  the  way  to  their  mouths  ?" 

"O  well,"  I  replied  quickly,  "if  that  is  all,  you  shall 


THE   DAILY  TASK  83 

see;  send  out  and  get  me  a  piece  of  cake  and  I  will  show 
you."  The  same  question  was  put  to  one  of  our  boys; 
and  he  answered  it  as  follows: 

"We  take  a  string,  tie  one  end  of  it  to  the  table  leg; 
the  other  to  our  tongue ;  and  then  we  take  the  food  in  our 
left  hand,  and  feel  up  the  string  with  our  right  until  we 
come  to  our  mouth." 

Mr.  Anthony  Reiff,  our  music  teacher,  could  see 
perfectly;  but,  on  a  certain  occasion,  while  a  party  of 
us  from  the  Institution  were  staying  at  a  hotel,  the  clerk 
of  the  place  asked  how  long  he  had  been  "that  way." 
For  a  joke,  the  teacher  answered,  "All  my  life";  and 
the  mistaken  clerk  carefully  led  him  up  to  his  room. 

But  we  were  also  favored  with  scores  of  delightful 
visitors  whom  we  loved  to  recall  in  later  years.  One 
afternoon  the  superintendent  said  to  me,  "There  is 
a  gentleman  waiting  below,  and  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to 
show  him  through  the  Institution?"  I  was  only  too 
glad  to  do  so;  and  we  went  the  rounds  of  the  buildings, 
until  finally  the  stranger  picked  up  a  copy  of  my  book, 
"The  Blind  Girl  and  Other  Poems."  Not  knowing 
me,  he  said, 

"Oh,  here  is  Miss  Crosby's  book.  You  know  her 
well,  I  suppose."  I  admitted  that  I  was  acquainted 
with  such  a  person  and  decided  to  have  a  little  sport. 

"  And  is  she  not  very  amiable  ?  "  was  the  next  question. 

"Oh,  no;  far  from  it,"  was  my  reply. 

"Well,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said,  "but 
I  will  take  one  of  her  books;  and  will  you  please  tell  her  ? " 

When  he  was  leaving,  he  handed  me  his  card,  and 


64,  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


I  learned  to  my  utter  astonishment  that  the  visitor  was 
the  celebrated  Professor  Tellcamp  of  Columbia  Col- 
lege. The  incident  immediately  brought  to  mind  the 
scriptural  advice,  "Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain  strangers, 
for  thereby  some  have  entertained  angels  unawares." 

I  never  saw  Professor  Tellcamp  again,  and  I  suppose 
he  did  not  learn  of  the  joke  that  I  played  on  him.  Not 
long  after  his  visit  I  entertained  a  young  student  of 
Columbia  College  under  similar  circumstances.  The 
superintendent  came  up  to  the  room,  where  several  of 
us  were  enjoying  a  delightful  book,  in  no  mood  to  be 
disturbed;  and  when  he  called  for  volunteers  to  conduct 
a  stranger  through  the  building  there  was  a  silence. 
Finally  I  said  carelessly,  "I  will  take  him  through,  if 
I  like  him."  When  we  were  introduced  I  did  indeed 
like  him;  and  we  conversed  for  more  than  three  hours 
unconscious  of  the  flight  of  time.  He  had  bright  hopes 
for  future  usefulness,  and  I  also  had  my  own  dreams, 
so  we  compared  notes  together.  We  did  not  meet  again 
until  sixty  years  afterward,  but  both  of  us  were  able  to 
recall  the  minute  details  of  our  conversation  on  that  day. 
He  was  Dr.  Israel  Parsons  and  became  a  successful 
physician  in  one  of  the  beautiful  towns  of  central  New 
York.  After  our  second  meeting,  we  saw  each  other 
yearly  for  several  summers  at  Assembly  Park,  until  the 
white-robed  angel  summoned  him  to  the  Celestial  City. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SUMMER  VACATIONS 

IN  the  summer  of  1842  it  was  decided  that  about 
twenty  of  our  pupils,  accompanied  by  a  few  of 
the  Board  of  Managers,  should  make  a  tour 
into  the  central  part  of  the  state,  with  the  pur- 
pose of  showing  the  public  to  what  extent  the  blind 
could  be  educated;  and  also  to  induce  parents  to  send 
their  children  to  our  school.  This  journey  took  us 
by  way  of  the  " raging  canal";  and  travel  by  water 
before  1850  was  very  popular.  The  Erie  suited  our 
purpose  very  well;  for  we  could  charter  a  boat,  and  tie 
it  up  at  any  town  along  the  way  until  we  were  ready  to 
proceed  on  the  following  morning,  after  the  exhibition 
the  night  before  in  the  town-hall.  So  we  had  a  veritable 
moving  "hotel"  at  our  service. 

A  few  slight  inconveniences  in  our  accommodations 
did  not  in  the  least  dishearten  us,  as  the  novelty  of  the 
trip  by  water  made  up  for  whatever  household  articles 
were  lacking.  We  had  one  wash-basin  for  twenty-three 
faces;  and  there  was  much  rivalry  in  the  morning  to  see 
who  would  be  the  first  to  get  the  basin.  In  the  beginning 
of  our  journey  the  captain  of  our  boat  did  not  appreciate 
some  of  our  practical  jokes;  before  many  days  had  passed, 
however,  we  became  better  acquainted,  and  then  he 
could  not  do  enough  for  our  comfort. 

Whenever  we  stopped  at  a  town  scores  of  curious 
65 


66  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

visitors  came  to  visit  us  at  our  "hotel";  consequently 
by  evening  the  news  of  our  arrival  had  been  so  noised 
abroad  that  the  town-hall  was  usually  well  filled  for  our 
evening  exhibition.  The  program  usually  included 
an  address  of  welcome  to  us,  delivered  by  some  clergy- 
man or  other  representative  citizen.  At  Little  Falls 
the  duty  of  introducing  us  fell  to  a  lawyer,  who  referred 
eloquently  to  our  visit  and  to  the  grand  act  of  the  Legis- 
lature of  the  state  in  "instituting  such  a  wonderful 
Institution"  as  ours  in  New  York  City.  This  became 
a  favorite  phrase  at  our  floating  hotel. 

My  beloved  teacher,  Mr.  Hamilton  Murray,  used 
to  introduce  me  in  a  beautiful  manner;  but,  when  he 
was  absent,  his  namesake,  Mr.  Robert  I.  Murray,  always, 
without  one  single  variation,  used  the  following  form, — 
"This  young  woman  will  now  repeat  a  piece  of  her  own 
composition.  It  has  never  been  revised  or  corrected 
by  any  of  the  managers  we  know  of."  There  was  a 
perceptible  titter  among  the  audience  whenever  this  form 
of  introduction  was  used,  but  Mr.  Murray  thought  it 
very  strange  that  I  did  not  like  his  method. 

"Thee  wants  Hamilton  Murray  to  introduce  thee," 
he  would  often  say,  and  I  always  replied, 

"Yes,  Mr.  Murray,  I  do." 

The  pupils'  part  of  the  program  consisted  in  reading 
from  the  raised  letters,  geography,  history,  arithmetic 
and  singing,  and  last  of  all  came  my  poetical  address. 
Skeptical  members  of  the  audience  often  sent  involved 
sentences  to  the  platform  to  be  parsed.    At  Schenectady 


SUMMER  VACATIONS  67 

someone  sent  up  the  following  passage  from  Pope's 
" Universal  Prayer": 

"What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 
Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 
That,  more  than  heaven  pursue." 

There  was  a  flurry  behind  the  scenes.  Some  of  the 
managers  said  that  I  ought  not  to  try  to  parse  it;  but 
Mr.  Murray  urged  me  on;  and  so  I  went  out  upon  the 
platform.  The  sentence  was  read:  I  had  never  heard 
it  before  and  for  a  few  moments  was  completely  confused. 
I  suppose  the  managers  thought  "I  told  you  so."  I 
began  by  saying  "  'what'  is  an  interjection,"  but  I  realized 
at  once  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and,  forgetting  that 
there  was  a  single  person  present  besides  Mr.  Murray, 
I  cried,  "No  it  isn't  any  such  thing;  wait  a  minute  and 
I  will  tell  you  what  it  is."  The  audience  laughed  and, 
of  course,  added  to  my  confusion,  but,  after  thinking 
a  few  moments,  I  transposed  the  sentence  correctly, 
and  then  was  able  to  parse  it  without  any  trouble.  When 
the  program  was  finished,  a  gentleman  came  up  to  me, 
spoke  kindly  of  my  success  in  being  able  to  unravel  the 
knotty  syntax  of  Pope's  lines,  and  then  placed  a  five- 
dollar  gold  piece  in  my  hand.  Before  I  could  inquire 
his  name  he  had  vanished,  but  I  always  thought  that  he 
was  a  teacher  in  Union  College. 

A  restless  mortal  like  myself  had  to  be  doing  some- 
thing continually  while  we  were  away  on  these  long 
journeys.    One  morning  we  stopped  at  a  town  near 


68  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

which  the  grandmother  of  one  of  our  pupils  lived ;  so  he 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  capital  idea  to  make  the 
matron  of  our  children  believe  that  the  old  lady  had 
come  to  visit  him.  Mr.  Murray  had  taught  me  to  dis- 
guise my  voice  so  well  that  the  matron  was  completely 
deceived.  When  we  knew  that  she  had  retired  to  take 
her  usual  afternoon  nap,  we  stationed  ourselves  where 
she  could  overhear  what  was  said.  "O  Charlie,  you 
had  your  grandmother  to  see  you,"  said  the  matron 
when  she  came  out;  and  we  managed  to  restrain  our 
mirth,  until  later  in  the  day  we  could  keep  the  secret  no 
longer. 

While  we  were  passing  through  the  lovely  valley  in 
which  the  Mohawk  River  flows,  one  of  the  teachers 
asked  me  to  sing  Tom  Moore's  "Meeting  of  the  Waters"; 
and  Mr.  Chamberlain  described  the  beautiful  scenery 
that  lay  on  every  hand,  and  I  changed  the  first  line  of 
the  Irish  bard's  poem 

"  Sweet  vale  of  Avoka," 
into 

"Sweet  vale  of  the  Mohawk," 

and  then  continued  the  quotation 

"How  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friend  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  which  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  shall 

cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace." 


SUMMER  VACATIONS 


At  last  we  arrived  at  Niagara  where  Nature  has 
composed  her  mightiest  poem.  The  grandeur  of  the 
surroundings  inspired  within  my  heart  a  reverence  such 
as  nothing  else  in  the  world  has  ever  awakened;  and 
when  we  again  visited  the  enchanted  spot  in  the  following 
summer  my  joy  was  increased.  I  could  picture  it  all 
in  my  imagination.  Across  the  gorge  were  the  woods 
and  fields  of  the  Canadian  shore;  almost  at  our  feet  was 
that  tremendous  mass  of  water  plunging  directly  down- 
ward and  dashing  itself  on  the  rocks  one  hundred  and 
sixty  feet  below;  and  above  the  falls  hung  a  delicate 
mist  in  the  sunlight  that  reflected  the  countless  colors 
of  both  earth  and  sky.  While  I  stood  there,  completely 
lost  amid  the  marvellous  works  of  God,  Mr.  Murray 
requested  me  to  repeat  a  poem  that  had  been  composed 
during  the  previous  summer;  and  while  I  said  over  my 
humble  lines  we  lifted  our  hearts  in  thankfulness  to  the 
kind  Father  of  us  all, 

"Who  spread'st  the  azure  vault  above, 
Whose  hand  controls  the  boisterous  sea." 

At  evening  we  went  down  to  Lewiston  and  from  there 
crossed  to  the  Canadian  shore  to  visit  the  beautiful  city 
of  Toronto.  Once  again  during  this  trip,  as  during 
the  return  journey  from  New  York,  I  saw  some  of  the 
colors  cf  the  golden  sunlight  glowing  on  the  waters. 

After  the  summer  vacation  of  1843  my  health  began 
to  decline  to  such  an  extent  that  my  teachers  became 
alarmed.  They  were  not  aware  that  most  of  the  nights 
in  the  previous  spring  did  not  find  me  in  bed  until  twelve, 


70  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

sometimes  two  o'clock;  and  when  we  returned  from  the 
trip  through  central  New  York  I  renewed  my  midnight 
vigils  with  the  inevitable  result:  my  strength  gradually 
failed.  It  was  not  many  weeks,  however,  before  the 
cause  of  my  trouble  became  known  to  Dr.  Clements. 
At  first  he  said  that  I  must  not  work  out  of  school  hours; 
then  he  refused  to  allow  me  to  hear  any  classes;  and 
finally  decided  to  send  me  into  the  country  to  rest  awhile 
during  the  summer  of  1844. 

Meanwhile  I  had  been  working  on  my  book,  and  it 
was  issued  just  before  the  final  mandate  not  to  do  any 
work  at  all.  As  a  preliminary  to  publishing  a  volume 
of  poems,  they  told  me  I  must  have  my  daguerreotype 
taken  for  the  frontispiece.  In  those  days  no  less  than 
four  minutes  were  required  for  an  exposure;  and  the 
idea  that  I,  the  restless  Fanny  Crosby,  as  they  all 
knew  me,  would  be  obliged  to  sit  still  so  long, — well  that 
was  indeed  very  funny.  As  a  result  I  burst  into  a 
laugh  right  in  the  midst  of  my  "sitting";  and,  of 
course,  spoiled  a  plate  for  the  photographer.  Then 
the  tedious  process  began  again;  a  veritable  inquisition 
it  was  for  me,  but  finally  I  endured  to  the  length  of  five 
whole  minutes  and  secured  a  fine  picture. 

It  was  with  great  reluctance  that  I  consented  to  have 
my  poems  published;  for  I  realized  only  too  well  that 
they  were  unfinished  productions;  and  I  hoped  to  im- 
prove upon  them  in  time.  But  a  few  of  the  teachers 
and  managers  at  the  Institution  would  not  take  no  for  an 
answer;  and,  consequently,  the  work  went  forward. 
Mr.  Hamilton  Murray  wrote  the  introduction  and  Dr. 


SUMMER  VACATIONS  71 

J.  W.  G.  Clements  did  the  compiling,  which  was  all 
the  more  kind  of  him  since  he  had  a  large  practice  and 
could  spare  but  a  moment  now  and  then  to  listen  to  my 
dictation. 

Many  of  the  verses  in  "The  Blind  Giri  and  Other 
Poems"  were  autobiographic,  such,  for  instance,  as 
the  opening  lines  of  the  book: 

"Her  home  was  near  an  ancient  wood, 
Where  many  an  oak  gigantic  stood; 
And  fragrant  flowers  of  every  hue 
In  that  sequestered  valley  grew. 

"A  church  there  reared  its  little  spire, 
And  in  their  neat  and  plain  attire, 
The  humble  farmers  would  repair 
On  Sabbath  morn  to  worship  there," 

My  schoolmates  were  also  pictured: 

"With  their  laugh  the  woodland  rang, 
Or  if  some  rustic  air  they  sang, 
These  rural  notes  of  music  sweet 
The  woodland  echoes  would  repeat." 

But  the  labor  in  publishing  a  book  was  too  great 
for  my  strength;  and  when  I  went  into  the  country  in 
the  summer  of  1844,  many  of  my  companions  thought 
that  they  were  certainly  bidding  me  good-bye  for  the 
last  time.  Dr.  Clements  also  feared  that  my  health 
would  not  improve; he  said  that  I  needed  rest  and  petting 
more  than  medicine;  and  when  I  was  ready  to  start  for 
home  he  said, 


72  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Can  you  get  plenty  of  pure  milk  at  your  mother's 
home?"    I  assured  him  that  I  could;  and  he  added, 

"Well,  drink  as  much  as  you  can."  His  good  advice 
was  followed  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  term  I 
returned  to  the  Institution  in  perfect  health. 

Four  years  after  I  first  went  to  New  York  a  little 
sister  came  to  gladden  our  home,  but  the  angel  of  death 
soon  called  her  away  to  that  other  home  above.  The 
letter  that  I  wrote  to  my  mother  and  my  step-father 
enclosing  a  poem,  is  still  preserved  as  it  was  originally 
copied  by  Mr.  Chamberlain.  Concerning  the  death 
of  my  little  sister,  I  said:  "The  impression  that  her 
death  has  made  upon  my  mind  is  a  deep  one;  but  this 
event  teaches  me  a  lesson,  which,  I  trust,  I  never  shall 
forget.  Once  I  looked  forward  to  future  years,  when 
she  would  be  not  only  a  comfort  to  you  but  also  to  my- 
self; but  these  fond  hopes  are  blighted.  Let  us  not 
repine,  but  cheerfully  submit  to  the  will  of  Heaven." 

The  poem  that  I  sent  to  mother  is  as  follows: 

"She's  gone,  ah  yes,  her  lovely  form 
Too  soon  has  ceased  to  bloom, 
An  emblem  of  the  fragile  flower 
That  blossoms  for  the  tomb. 

"Yet,  mother,  check  that  starting  tear, 
That  trembles  in  thine  eye; 
And  thou,  kind  father,  cease  to  mourn, 
Suppress  that  heaving  sigh. 


SUMMER   VACATIONS  73 

"She's  gone,  and  thou,  dear  aunt,  no  more 
Wilt  watch  her  cradle  bed, 
She  slumbers  in  the  peaceful  tomb, 
But  weep  not  for  the  dead. 

"Kind  uncle,  thou  art  grieving  too, 

Thy  tears  in  thought  I  see; 

Ah,  never  will  her  infant  hand 

Be  stretched  again  to  thee. 

"She's  gone,  yet  why  should  we  repine, 
Our  darling  is  at  rest; 
Her  cherub  spirit  now  reclines 
On  her  Redeemer's  breast." 

Sometimes  two  or  three  of  my  associates  would 
accompany  me  when  I  went  home  for  the  summer  va- 
cation ;  and  mother  liked  them  to  come  as  often  as  possible 
for  she  loved  the  society  of  young  people.  A  humorous 
incident  happened  during  one  of  these  visits  that  is 
good  enough  to  relate  here.  Among  my  friends  came 
a  young  man  who  wore  a  wig,  but  mother  did  not  know 
it;  and  one  evening,  when  there  were  several  present,  he 
complained  of  a  severe  cold  in  his  head. 

"OI  think  I  can  cure  that,"  said  my  mother.  He 
replied, 

"  Never  mind ;  I'll  get  over  it."  But  she  was  evidently 
bent  upon  working  a  cure ;  and  despite  the  remonstrance 
of  the  young  man,  proceeded  to  rub  some  salt  on  his 
scalp,  whereupon  the  fact  of  the  wig  became  known  to 
the  company.    The  young  man  was  considerably  em- 


74  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

barrassed;  and  mother  of  course  heartily  wished  she 
had  let  him  alone. 

My  two  little  sisters  were  always  in  ecstasy  whenever 
I  came  home.  They  saved  up  their  pennies  for  weeks 
that  they  might  buy  me  some  sweetmeats.  And  such 
chattering:  there  was  so  much  important  news  to  be 
told  and  so  many  questions,  on  both  sides,  that  required 
immediate  answers.  Too  soon  would  come  the  end 
of  these  summer  outings ;  and  my  heart  always  trembled 
when  the  hour  of  parting  arrived;  for  I  could  hear  in 
the  distance,  as  the  carriage  bore  me  away,  the  plaintive 
voices  crying,  "Fanny,  Fanny,  come  back!"  More 
than  once  the  old  homesickness  returned;  and  I  was 
again  sorely  tempted  to  turn  back  from  the  journey  to 
New  York. 

But  it  is  a  rare  blessing  that  these  dear  sisters  have 
been  spared,  so  that  the  reality  of  the  present  is  no  less 
gracious  than  the  memory  of  the  past.  The  days  of 
childhood  are  recalled  as  a  benediction;  and  the  daily 
ministry  of  the  present  is  a  true  manifestation  of  the 
love  between  those  who  are  near  and  dear  to  me. 

While  our  precious  mother  lived,  her  birthdays  were 
occasions  of  festive  gatherings;  and  almost  yearly  I 
wrote  her  a  poem.  That  which  was  written  for  her 
eighty-second  birthday  follows: 

'How  pleasant  to  look  on  a  brow  like  hers, 
With  hardly  a  trace  of  care; 
How  cheerful  the  light  of  her  beaming  eye, 
As  she  sits  in  her  easy  chair. 


SUMMER    VACATIONS  73 

"So  little  the  change  in  her  dear,  kind  face 
We  scarce  can  believe  it  true 
That  she  numbers  today  her  four  score  years, 
Her  four  score  years  and  two. 

"Her  winter  of  age,  though  the  snowflakes  fell, 
Has  never  been  dark  and  drear, 
She  moves  with  the  vigor  of  younger  feet, 
And  her  mind  is  bright  and  clear. 

"She  merrily  talks  of  the  olden  time, 
Of  the  friends  in  youth  she  knew; 
She  is  sprightly  and  gay,  though  she  numbers  today 
Her  four  score  years  and  two. 

"And  now  as  we  come  with  our  birthday  gifts, 
When  she  views  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  earnest  God  bless  you,  my  children  deai; 
Is  breathed  from  her  lips  once  more. 

"We  think  how  devoted  our  mother's  love, 

What  a  sunshine  of  joy  she  gives, 
And  we  feel  as  we  tenderly  kiss  her  cheek, 

What  a  comfort  that  still  she  lives!" 


CHAPTER  IX 
TWO  ADDRESSES  BEFORE  CONGRESS 

BUT  I  have  passed  over  two  or  three  important 
events.  During  the  autumn  of  1843,  as 
I  have  said,  I  was  ill;  and  when  a  party 
from  the  school  was  going  to  Washington 
to  appear  before  Congress,  in  the  following  January, 
I  had  not  yet  fully  recovered.  Dr.  Clements  said  that 
I  would  fret  myself  into  a  serious  sickness,  if  they  left 
me  at  home;  besides  the  trip  South  night  do  me  some 
good.  It  was  finally  decided  by  the  Board  of  Managers 
that  he  should  go  and  take  charge  of  ire,  to  Vvhich  arrange- 
ment I  joyfully  assented ;  yet,  when  I  learned  that  I  was 
expected  to  deliver  a  poem  before  a  joint  session  of  both 
houses  of  Congress,  my  heart  sank  within  me.  Indeed 
I  think  I  would  not  have  agreed  to  the  arrangement, 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  our  party  were  trying  to  im- 
press upon  the  legislators  in  Washington  the  absolute 
need  of  schools  for  the  blind  in  every  state  of  the  Union. 
Any  chance  of  doing  a  little  for  them  I,  or  course,  would 
not  let  pass;  and  so  there  I  was  a  timid  mortal  not  in 
the  best  of  health,  to  deliver  an  address  before  the  most 
distinguished  body  I  have  ever  seen.  Some  of  the 
skeptical  managers  said  that  I  would  fail  in  the  midst 
of  my  recitation,  and  that  thought,  I  must  confess,  was 
in  my  own  mind.  But  the  inspiration  of  the  hour  was 
sufficient  to  fortify  me  against  the  dreaded  failure.    At 

76 


TWO  ADDRESSES  BEFORE   CONGRESS  77 


any  rate  I  tried  to  do  my  level  best;  and  when  I  finished 
my  poem  there  was  a  dreadful  silence  which  I  interpreted 
to  mean  that  the  audience  was  not  pleased.  With 
mingled  emotions,  alternating  between  hope  and  fear, 
I  waited,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  long  as  five  minutes;  in 
reality  I  suppose,  not  more  than  thirty  seconds  passed 
before  there  was  such  a  tremendous  applause  that  I 
was  actually  frightened.  At  length  they  began  to  call 
for  me,  and  then  there  was  a  hasty  consultation  in  the 
ante-room  between  Dr.  Clements  and  the  managers. 

" Don't  let  her  try  it,"  they  said;  "tell  them  that  she 
is  not  strong  enough." 

But  the  good  doctor  asked  that  the  whole  matter  be 
referred  to  me. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  will  recite  another  poem,  for 
never  may  I  get  a  chance  to  address  such  a  famous 
audience  again." 

Then,  I  went  out  upon  the  platform,  and  repeated 
some  lines  that  had  been  written  and  published  the 
summer  before  in  memory  of  the  Hon.  Hugh  S.  Legare, 
the  lamented  Secretary  of  State,  who  died  quite  suddenly 
while  going,  with  President  Tyler,  to  attend  the  exercises 
at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
monument.     I  will  quote  three  stanzas  of  my  tribute: 

"Farewell,  esteemed  departed  one,  farewell, 
Deep  solemn  tones  have  pealed  thy  funeral  knell, — 
Thou  to  the  grave  art  gone.     Sweet  be  thy  rest! 
For  angels  guard  the  relics  of  the  blest. 


78  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Hark,  hark,  thy  requiem  floats  upon  the  ear, 
So  deeply  sad.    We  pause;  we  weep  to  hear. 
Ye  patriot  sons  of  fair  Columbia's  shore, 
A  brilliant  star  has  set,  to  shine  no  more. 

"Weep,  oh,  Columbia,  o'er  his  lonely  grave, 
Then  let  the  cypress,  sorrow's  emblem,  wave, 
The  mournful  breezes  sigh,  wild  flowerets  bloom, 
And  breathe  their  fragrance  o'er  his  hallowed  tomb." 

My  lines  of  tribute  evidently  took  the  senators  by 
surprise,  and  I  was  told  that  many  of  them  wept.    But 
the  occasion  was  doubly  sad  for  me,  because  the  sister 
of  Secretary  Legare  was  in  the  audience,  having  come 
all  the  way  from  Georgia  to  see  our  pupils,  and  to  meet 
the  writer  of  the  poem,  for  she  had  already  seen  it  in 
the  papers.    When  I  came  out  of  the  Senate  chamber 
she  met  me  at  the  door  and  placed  a  beautiful  ring  on 
my  finger.    The  following  year  she  came  to  New  York 
to  visit  us  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  presenting  her  with 
the  first  copy  of  "The  Blind  Girl  and  Other  Poems" 
that  came  from  the  press.    In  April,  1847,  we  again 
appeared  before  Congress,  with  delegations  from  Boston 
and   Philadelphia    institutions,   and    Laura    Bridgman 
was  a  member  of  the  party.     I  shall  never  forget  her 
gentle  manners  and  her  faculty  of  remembering  people. 
On  the  night  of    our  Washington   concert  she  shook 
hands  with  six  congressmen,  whose  names  were  written 
on  her  palm.     In  a  few  minutes  they  again  passed  before 
her,  though  in  different  order,  and  she  was  able  to  tell 
the  name  of  each  without  any  difficulty. 


TWO  ADDRESSES  BEFORE  CONGRESS  7ft 

During  our  stay  in  Washington  we  had  the  privilege 
of  hearing  the  last  speech  of  John  Quincy  Adams.  The 
audience  was  so  still  that  the  faintest  noise  in  any  part 
of  the  room  seemed  to  be  very  loud,  and  we  waited 
breathlessly  to  hear  what  the  aged  statesman  would 
say  to  the  rising  generation.  His  voice  had  lost  much 
of  its  original  sweetness  and  power  but  it  fell  upon  our 
ears  with  a  strange  cadence  that  echoed  in  my  memory 
for  many  years  after  the  voice  itself  had  ceased  to  be 
a  great  and  commanding  force  in  the  councils  of  our 
nation. 

James  K.  Polk  was  then  president;  and  the  members 
of  our  party  felt  somewhat  acquainted  with  him  inas- 
much as  he  had  made  us  a  visit  during  the  summer  of 
1845.  On  that  former  occasion  I  welcomed  him  with 
a  poem,  only  the  first  two  lines  of  which  I  now  remember: 

"We  welcome  not  a  monarch  with  a  crown  upon  his  brow, 
Before  no  haughty  tyrant  as  suppliants  we  bow." 

A  friend  has  recently  sent  me  another  little  impromptu 
poem  which  I  composed  on  being  given  a  poke- weed  by 
a  friend: 

"A  thousand  thanks  to  thee,  good  Mr.  Chase, 
This  poke-weed  garland  on  my  brow  I'll  place. 
If  I  this  moment  Mr.  Polk  could  see 
Quickly  an  office  I'd  obtain  for  thee. 
Once  more  a  thousand  thanks  from  me, 
But,  Mr.  Chase,  a  Whig  thou  must  not  be. 
Then,  change  at  once  thy  politics,  I  pray, 
And  I'll  send  word  to  Polk  without  delay." 


80  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

While  we  were  in  Washington,  in  1847,  President 
Polk  invited  us  to  the  White  House,  and  during  the  course 
of  the  conversation,  he  said, 

"Well,  Miss  Crosby,  have  you  made  any  poetry  since 
I  saw  you  last  year?" 

"Yes  sir,"  I  promptly  replied,  "I  have  composed 
a  song  and  dedicated  it  to  you." 

My  announcement  was  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  my 
friends  as  to  Mr.  Polk  himself;  for  I  had  kept  my  own 
counsel;  but  he  appeared  to  be  much  gratified  and  asked 
me  to  take  his  arm  and  proceed  to  the  music  room, 
where  we  held  an  impromptu  recital. 

During  this  appearance  before  Congress  they  re- 
quested me  to  recite  a  poem;  and  I  gladly  consented. 
Some  of  my  friends  have  maintained  that  I  am  the  only 
woman  who  has  appeared  before  the  joint  session  of 
the  Senate  and  House  of  Representatives  to  present 
a  petition. 

On  our  return  trip  from  Washington,  Mr.  J.  F. 
Chamberlain,  already  mentioned  as  the  genial  superin- 
tendent of  our  Institution,  and  I  happened  to  be  con- 
versing about  the  infinite  possibilities  of  development 
in  the  Western  part  of  our  country.  "Have  you  heard 
my  poem,  'Away  to  the  Prairie'?"  asked  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain. I  had  not;  and  he  therefore  recited  the  beautiful 
stanzas  which  here  follow: 

"Away  to  the  prairie,  up,  up  and  away, 
Where  the  bison  are  roaming,  the  deer  are  at  play; 
From  the  wrongs  that  surround  us,  the  home  of  our  rest, 
Let  us  seek  on  the  wide,  rolling  plains  of  the  West. 


TWO    ADDRESSES   BEFORE    CONGRESS  81 

"Away  to  the  prairie,  where  the  pioneer's  lay 
Is  echoed  afar  on  the  breezes;  away! 

"  To  the  wide,  rolling  plains  of  the  West  let  us  hie, 
Where  the  clear  river's  bosom  immirrors  the  sky, 
On  whose  banks  stands  the  warrior  so  brave, 
Whose  bark  hath  alone  left  a  curl  on  the  wave. 

"Yes,  away  to  the  prairie,  whose  bosom,  though  wild, 
Is  unstained  by  oppression,  by  fraud  undented; 
From  the  wrongs  that  surround  us,  the  home  of  our  rest, 
Let  us  seek  on  the  wide,  rolling  plains  of  the  West." 

I  asked  him  to  hum  the  melody  to  these  words. 
Mr.  Chamberlain  replied  that  there  was  no  melody  yet 
composed.  "But  why  can't  you  write  one?"  said  he. 
The  suggestion  was  opportune;  for  there  was  already 
an  air  singing  itself  in  my  mind;  and  before  New  York 
was  reached  the  music  was  completed.  Though  our 
song  was  popular  in  the  Institution  for  a  number  of 
years  it  never  was  made  public.  In  those  days  I  used 
to  play  the  guitar,  the  piano  and  sometimes  for  our 
choruses  the  chapel  organ.  Special  occasions  required 
some  original  words  and  music,  some  of  which  were 
a  New  Year  serenade  for  Mr.  Chamberlain;  a  Thanks- 
giving chorus;  a  farewell  song  to  Mr.  George  F.  Root, 
on  his  departure  for  Europe;  a  quartet,  entitled,  "Dream 
of  Tomorrow";  a  hvmn  for  an  infant  class,  words  and 
music,  for  Mr.  Bradbury  in  1867,  "Jesus,  Dear,  I  Come 
to  Thee";  a  "Welcome  to  Springtime,"  1901,  and  others. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  PEERLESS  TRIO  OF  PUBLIC  MEN 

FOR  the  country  at  large  and  for  our  Institution 
in  particular  the  year  1848  was  an  important 
one.  The  nation  was  entering  upon  a  new 
era  of  prosperity  after  the  Mexican  war; 
and  all  eyes  were  turning  towards  the  South,  to  face 
the  grim  prospect  of  another  dreadful  conflict,  this  time, 
however,  within  our  own  borders,  a  struggle  that  was  to 
decide  once  for  all  a  number  of  the  great  questions  in 
dispute.  Already  there  was  some  talk  of  disunion, — 
but  we  all  anxiously  hoped  that  our  statesmen  might 
yet  devise  some  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  The  dis- 
cussion of  important  national  affairs  was  very  interesting 
to  our  pupils,  and  many  of  us  were  as  prolific  in  com- 
promise measures  as  was  Henry  Clay  himself;  until  it 
seemed  that  we  had  arrived  at  a  more  satisfactory  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  than  any  of  the  great  senators  at 
Washington. 

At  this  period,  when  we  were  so  much  interested  in 
public  affairs,  is  was  an  added  source  of  satisfaction  for 
us  to  receive  visits  from  a  peerless  trio  of  statesmen,  all 
of  whom  were  taking  a  prominent  part  in  the  councils 
of  our  nation.  One  of  these  men  was  president  of  the 
United  States  and  the  other  two  wanted  to  be.  They 
were  James  K.  Polk,  Henry  Clay  and  Winfield  Scott. 
After  serving  a  number  of  years  in  Congress,  Mr.  Polk 

82 


A  PEERLESS  TRIO  OF  PUBLIC   MEN  8S 

had  been  elected  governor  of  Tenne96ee;  and  when 
a  compromise  candidate  for  president  had  been  suggested 
in  1844,  he  was  nominated  against  Clay  and  triumphantly 
elected. 

We  regretted  very  much  not  being  able  to  see  Henry 
Clay  in  the  Senate,  but  in  the  following  spring,  in  March 
of  1848,  he  made  a  tour  of  the  large  cities,  and  as  a 
specially  invited  guest  when  in  New  York  came  to  our 
Institution.  About  thirteen  months  before  this  time,  his 
beloved  son  and  namesake  had  fallen  while  fighting  at 
the  battle  of  Beuna  Vista;  and  I  had  written  a  poem  in 
memory  of  Colonel  Clay  which  Mr.  Chamberlain  sent  to 
his  father.  The  great  statesman  was  never  quite  himself 
after  his  son's  death ;  and  I  purposely  avoided  all  mention 
of  it  to  the  address  of  welcome  on  the  day  he  came  to 
visit  us,  lest  I  might  wound  the  heart  of  the  man  whom 
I  had  learned  not  only  to  venerate  but  to  love;  for  Mr. 
Clay  was  always  an  especial  favorite  among  public  men. 

There  was  a  strength  in  his  character  and  an  earnest- 
ness in  his  speeches  that  appealed  to  me  more  than  I 
can  tell.  I  used  to  liken  Clay  to  Richard  Henry  Lee, 
and  Webster  to  Patrick  Henry;  for  one  was  as  gentle 
as  the  murmur  of  a  rippling  stream,  the  other  rushed 
onward  with  the  strength  of  a  mountain  torrent,  sweeping 
all  before  him  by  the  force  of  his  mighty  intellect.  I 
thought  Clay  the  more  winning  of  the  two;  and  I  would 
have  challenged  any  person,  whether  Whig  or  Democrat, 
Northerner  or  Southerner,  to  come  within  range  of  that 
man's  eloquence  without  being  moved   to  admiration 


84  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

and  profound  respect;  for  his  personal  magnetism  was 
wonderful. 

Mr.  Clay  came  to  the  Institution  at  about  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  we  were  prepared  to  welcome  him 
in  princely  style.  When  he  came  in  the  door  the  band 
greeted  him  with  "Hail  to  the  Chief ";  and,  then,  they 
opened  their  ranks  and  allowed  him  to  pass  between 
two  files  of  musicians  to  the  chapel  upstairs  where  the 
rest  of  us  were  assembled.  We  sang  a  chorus  prepared 
for  the  occasion,  after  which  Mr.  Chamberlain  gave 
some  eloquent  words  of  greeting;  and,  next,  came  my 
poem  of  welcome. 

When  I  had  finished  reciting  it,  Mr.  Clay  stepped 
forward  and,  drawing  my  arm  in  his  own,  led  me  slowly 
to  the  front  of  the  platform.  "  This  is  not  the  only  poem,,> 
said  he,  "for  which  I  am  indebted  to  this  lady.  Six 
months  ago  she  sent  me  some  lines  on  the  death  of  my 
dear  son."  His  voice  trembled;  he  did  not  speak  for 
some  moments,  while  both  of  us  stood  there  weeping. 
Finally,  with  a  great  effort,  he  controlled  his  emotion 
and  delivered  one  of  the  most  eloquent  addresses  to 
which  I  have  ever  listened.  He  had  a  deep  rich  voice 
that  echoed  with  strange  sweetness  throughout  our 
chapel  as  it  rose  and  fell  with  the  feeling  that  he  sought 
to  express,  and  we  were  charmed  by  his  eloquence. 

Not  many  months  after  his  visit  to  New  York,  Mr. 
Clay  was  again  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate,  and 
the  old  fire  seemed  to  return  to  him  when  he  arose  to 
debate  some  important  measure,  or  to  propose  some 
great  compromise,  like  the  "Omnibus  Bill"  which  bore 


A  PEERLESS  TRIO  OF  PUBLIC  MEN  85 

his  own  name.  Still  his  health  was  impaired,  and  soon 
afterward  he  slept  with  his  fathers  at  Ashland,  Kentucky; 
but  the  laurels  of  his  fame  are  blooming  yet  in  all  of 
their  original  sweetness  and  beauty. 

" Sleep  on,  oh  statesman,  sleep, 
Within  thy  hallowed  tomb, 
Where  pearly  streamlets  glide, 
And  summer  roses  bloom." 

In  the  early  spring  of  1848  General  Scott  made  a 
triumphal  entry  into  New  York  which  was  almost  as 
notable  as  that  other  entry  into  the  city  of  the  Monte- 
zumas.  The  events  of  the  Mexican  war  were  still 
fresh  in  our  minds,  and  we  were  eager  to  meet  the  hero 
who  had  won  the  name  of  "  Old-Rough-and-Ready." 
He  came,  however,  a  little  before  we  were  prepared 
for  him;  still  there  was  no  emergency  for  which  our 
superintendent,  Mr.  Chamberlain,  was  not  equal.  He 
received  the  distinguished  guest  in  his  usual  urbane  way, 
and  then  sent  for  me  to  entertain  him  until  the  time  set 
for  the  afternoon  exercises.  From  such  an  honor  I 
shrank  at  first,  but  the  great  general  had  not  spoken 
half  a  dozen  sentences  before  I  was  at  ease;  his  quiet  and 
kindly  manner  was  so  reassuring. 

Mr.  Chamberlain's  formal  address  to  General  Scott 
was  a  model  of  his  excellent  use  of  the  English  tongue; 
and  the  closing  sentences  of  it  have  a  peculiar  force, 
as  I  write  fifty-six  years  later  and  record  the  fulfillment 
of  the  prophecy  therein  contained.  I  quote  from  a 
newspaper  of  the  time: 


8«  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Some  of  these  pupils,  when  you  have  filled  up  the 
measure  of  your  fame,  and  to  you,  the  praise  and  censure 
of  men  will  be  alike  indifferent, — they  will  survive ;  and 
when  they  shall  recount  your  achievements,  and  tell  to 
coming  generations  of  Chippewa,  and  of  Cerro  Gordo, 
and  of  Contreras,  and  many  other  fields  where  you  have 
covered  the  proud  flag  of  your  country  with  imperishable 
glory, — I  would  have  them  say,  too,  that  once  at  least 
it  was  their  fortune  to  listen  to  the  tones  of  that  voice, 
whose  word  of  command  was  ever  to  the  brave  the 
talisman  of  assured  victory." 

General  Scott's  reply  was  earnest  but  brief,  and  his 
gentle  manner  did  not  indicate  a  hero  of  so  many  battles ; 
yet  there  was  strength  beneath  the  exterior  appearance, 
and  a  heart  of  iron  within  his  breast.  But  from  him 
I  learned  that  the  warrior  only  it  is,  who  can  fully  appre- 
ciate the  blessing  of  peace.  I  recalled  the  newspaper 
reports  of  the  triumphal  entry  of  the  Americans  into 
the  city  of  Mexico,  and  how  the  soldiers  reveled  there. 

" General  Scott,"  I  said,  "when  you  found  yourself 
really  within  the  halls  of  the  Montezumas,  did  you  not 
feel  like  shouting?" 

"No,"  replied  the  soldier,  "we  felt  like  falling  down 
here  on  our  knees  to  thank  the  good  Lord  for  our  victory." 
Later  in  the  afternoon  he  said,  "No,  we  did  not  revel  in 
the  halls  of  the  Montezumas;  we  lived  on  one  meal 
a  day." 

While  General  Scott  was  examining  a  collection  of 
maps  that  were  used  by  our  pupils,  one  of  the  aldermen 


A  PEERLESS  TRIO   OF  PUBLIC   MEN  87 

present, — for  they  always  came  to  our  receptions, — 
stepped  to  my  side  and  whispered, 

''The  general's  sword  is  just  a  little  out  of  place." 

''Let  us  remove  it  quietly,"  said  I.  With  his  aid 
I  carefully  drew  it  out  of  the  great  sheath  without  at- 
tracting attention;  and  then  suddenly  held  it  above  the 
head  of  the  intrepid  warrior. 

"General  Scott,"  I  exclaimed  in  an  authoritative 
tone,  "you  are  my  prisoner."  Although  taken  com- 
pletely by  surprise,  he  was  by  no  means  at  a  loss  for  an 
answer. 

"Oh,  I  surrender;  I  always  surrender  at  discretion 
to  the  ladies."  He  laughed  good-naturedly,  as  did 
those  who  saw  the  incident;  and  we  turned  the  subject. 
A  moment  later,  however,  he  said, 

"Well,  Miss  Crosby,  the  next  time  I  come  here  I 
suppose  some  young  man  will  have  run  off  with  you." 
Forgetting  that  he  was  a  candidate  for  the  presidency, 
I  exclaimed, 

"Oh;  no,  I  shall  wait  for  the  next  president."  This 
announcement  on  my  part  was  followed  by  a  tremendous 
roar  of  laughter,  and  I  found  myself  in  an  uncomfortable 
position. 

But  General  Scott,  being  the  candidate  of  the  Whigs 
at  the  election  of  1852,  was  defeated  by  one  of  his  sub- 
ordinate generals  in  the  Mexican  war,  Franklin  Pierce, 
of  whose  political  party  I  was  an  adherent.  Conse- 
quently, after  the  election  I  wrote  a  little  song  entitled, 
"Carry  Me  On,"  most  of  which  has  been  forgotten, 
except  the  chorus,  which  goes  as  follows: 


88  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"O  Whigs,  carry  me  on,  carry  me  far  away, 
For  election's  past  and  I'm  pierced  at  last: 
The  locoes  gave  gained  the  day." 

I  have  already  mentioned  James  K.  Polk,  who  was 
president  from  1845  to  1849,  and  also  the  soiree  at  the 
White  House  during  the  Washington  exhibition  in  the 
winter  of  1847.  The  following  summer  Mr.  Polk  re- 
turned our  call,  coming  unexpectedly  and  unattended, 
for  he  was  a  very  plain  man  and  did  not  wish  any  cere- 
mony at  his  reception.  He  said  that  he  had  simply 
come  to  our  beautiful  retreat  to  escape  the  turmoil  of 
the  busy  city. 

After  dinner  I  asked  President  Polk  if  he  would  not 
enjoy  a  stroll  through  our  grounds.  Everything  that 
day  was  in  the  height  of  its  beauty,  the  trees  formed 
a  double  arch  over  the  walks  in  our  yard,  and  in  the 
lofty  boughs  many  robins  and  bluebirds  built  their  nests 
and  entertained  us  with  their  sweet  carols.  The  soft 
winds  came  stealing  through  the  leafy  boughs,  laden 
with  perfume  from  the  flowers  of  a  score  of  nearby 
gardens. 

We  had  not  gone  many  yards  before  I  heard  the 
familiar  voice  of  an  old  domestic  to  whom  I  was  indebted 
for  many  favors.  The  dear  old  woman  was  not  at  that 
time  in  the  employ  of  the  Institution,  but  had  just  returned 
for  a  few  minutes  to  speak  with  some  of  us ;  and  I  knew 
that  I  might  not  see  her  again  for  months  to  come.  This 
thought  was  uppermost  in  my  mind  at  that  moment; 
and  so  I  turned  impulsively  to  President  Polk  and  said, 


A  PEERLESS  TRIO  OF  PUBLIC  MEN  89 

"Will  you  please  excuse  me  a  minute?"  "Certainly," 
he  replied;  and  so  I  left  the  chief  man  of  the  nation 
standing  alone  while  I  ran  to  greet  my  friend.  Realizing 
my  discourtesy  on  my  return,  I  made  all  manner  of 
apologies;  and  tried  to  explain  the  circumstance  as  best 
I  might.  To  my  surprise,  however,  the  great  and  good 
man  said, 

"You  have  done  well,  and  I  commend  you  for  it. 
Kindness,  even  to  those  in  the  humblest  capacity  of 
life,  should  be  our  rule  of  conduct;  and  by  this  act  you 
have  won  not  only  my  respect  but  also  my  esteem."  I 
had  hitherto  held  a  high  opinion  of  President  Polk  but 
from  that  moment  his  kind  words  elevated  him  to  my 
own  ideal  of  a  Christian  gentleman;  and  that  night,  ere 
I  sought  my  pillow,  I  fervently  prayed  that  God  would 
bless  and  sustain  our  worthy  president  in  the  arduous 
duty  of  executing  the  laws  for  more  than  twenty  millions 
of  people. 

I  have  already  said  that  I  sympathized  with  the 
Democratic  party.  In  1844  Clay  and  Frelinghuyson 
were  the  Whig  candidates.  One  afternoon  during  the 
summer  I  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  singing  snatches  of 
Democratic  songs  for  my  own  amusement;  and,  before 
I  knew  it,  two  gentlemen  came  into  the  room,  one  of 
whom  advanced  toward  me  with  the  request  that  I  favor 
them  with  another  song.  When  I  had  finished  singing, 
he  said, 

"Then  Mr.  Clay  is  not  your  candidate." 

"Xo,"  I  replied,  "but  I  have  a  profound  respect  and 
reverence  for  him,  and  also  for  Mr.  Frelinghuyson, — 


90  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

yet  they  are  not  my  candidates."  At  that  moment 
Mr.  Chamberlain  came  up  and  presented  me  to  the  two 
strangers;  and  to  my  utter  consternation  I  found  that 
one  of  them  was  Mr.  Frelinghuyson  himself. 

"Mr.  Frelinghuyson,"  I  said,  "you  have  heard  me 
express  my  views  already;  and  for  me  to  say  that  I  did 
not  mean  it  would  be  telling  a  falsehood.  But  I  would 
not  have  said  what  I  did,  had  I  known  you  were  present, — 
so  please  take  it  for  what  it  is  worth."  He  laughed 
heartily  and  replied,  "I  give  you  credit  for  your  candor." 

My  interest  in  public  affairs  has  never  abated.  There 
are  not  many  people  living  in  this  year  of  grace  who  had 
the  privilege  of  meeting  such  statesmen  as  Henry  Clay, 
General  Scott,  and  President  Polk;  but  the  names  of 
these  heroes  are  recorded  with  indelible  letters  among 
the  annals  of  our  national  history  and  their"  imperishable 
deeds  are  chronicled  in  characters  that  no  person  living 
should  wish  to  efface.  They  were  men  of  sterling  worth 
and  firm  integrity,  of  whom  the  rising  generation  may 
well  learn  wisdom  and  the  true  principles  of  national 
honor  and  democracy  that  all  of  them  labored  so  faith- 
fully to  inculcate.  And  that  the  men  of  this  present 
age  and  of  generations  to  come  will  continue  to  remember 
the  dignity  and  honor  that  the  past  has  bequeathed  to 
our  own  and  future  times,  no  loyal  American  need  have 
one  iota  of  doubt. 


CHAPTER     XI 
CONTRASTED  EVENTS 

NOT  many  months  after  the  visit  of  General 
Scott  vague  rumors  of  the  spread  of  Asiatic 
cholera  came  to  our  ears.  By  autumn  the 
dread  disease  had  swept  all  over  Europe 
slaying  its  thousands  and  putting  the  inhabitants  of 
the  infected  cities  into  a  panic.  The  winter  of  1848 
was  favorable  to  the  spread  of  cholera;  a  mild,  damp, 
muggy  atmosphere  prevailed,  and  the  physicians  in  our 
city  began  to  predict  that  we  were  certain  to  be  visited 
by  the  terrible  scourge  within  the  year.  In  1832  our 
land  had  been  stricken  with  cholera  and  I  remembered 
well  the  sad  reports  that  reached  our  little  hamlet  at 
Ridgefield  from  week  to  week. 

For  many  months,  while  the  black  cloud  now  seemed 
to  be  hanging  over  the  defenseless  towns  of  America, 
we  hoped  that  we  might  be  spared  from  its  ravages,  but 
I  think  the  cholera  reached  New  York  in  March  or  April 
of  1849.  At  first  it  was  confined  to  the  lower  part  of 
the  city,  where  the  authorities  tried  vigorously  to  stamp 
it  out,  meanwhile  endeavoring  to  keep  the  matter  as 
quiet  as  possible  for  fear  of  unduly  alarming  the  people. 

One  morning  in  June  Mr.  Chamberlain  came  running 
into  the  office;  and  he  was  so  excited  that  we  thought 
something  dreadful  had  occurred.  I  followed  him  and 
he  said,  "Will  you  promise  not  to  tell  what  has  hap- 

91 


92  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

pened?"  I  answered  in  the  affirmative;  and  then  he 
unfolded  a  pitiful  story  of  a  man  who  had  been  taken 
in  our  very  midst;  and  how  they  had  hurried  him  to 
the  nearest  hospital — a  common  cart  being  the  only 
vehicle  that  could  be  immediately  secured — but  the  poor 
sufferer  had  died  on  the  way.  Then  we  knew  that  the 
disease  might  enter  our  school  at  any  moment;  in  which 
case  we  feared  a  terrible  mortality  among  the  pupils, 
for  none  of  them  had  left  for  the  summer  vacation. 

On  the  following  Monday  we  had  our  first  case. 
One  of  the  youngest  girls  was  taken ;  she  called  me  to  her 
and  asked  me  to  hold  her  in  my  lap,  as  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  do. 

'Miss  Crosby,  I  am  going  home,"  she  said,  "and  I 
just  wanted  to  bid  you  good-bye  and  to  tell  you  I  love 
you.  Now  lay  me  down  again."  Toward  evening 
she  died  and  before  sunrise  the  next  morning  we  carried 
her  to  Trinity  Cemetery,  where  a  brief  prayer  was  said ; 
and  then,  just  as  the  dawn  was  coming  across  the  eastern 
hills,  our  little  company  slowly  wended  its  way  back  to 
the  Institution  to  await  the  next  case. 

Dr.  J.  W.  G.  Clements  was  one  of  the  most  skillful 
physicians  that  the  city  afforded;  but  medicine  was 
almost  powerless  to  check  the  ravages  of  cholera,  except 
it  were  used  merely  as  a  preventative.  I  assisted  as 
a  volunteer  nurse,  and  helped  the  doctor  make  some 
of  the  remedies.  One  of  them  was  composed  of  three 
parts  mercury  and  one  part  opium,  rolled  into  pills: 
I  remember  that  we  made  six  hundred  in  one  day.  At 
the  appearance  of  anything  like  a  symptom  of  cholera 


CONTRASTED  EVENTS  93 

we  administered  very  generous  doses  of  these  pills,  which 
proved  to  be  efficient  remedies  in  half  of  our  twenty 
cases,  ten  terminating  fatally. 

I  shudder  when  I  recall  those  days;  for  frequently 
the  stillness  of  the  night,  while  I  was  watching  at  some 
bedside,  would  be  broken  by  the  hoarse  cry,  "Bring 
out  your  dead,"  from  some  of  the  city  officials  as  they 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  bereaved  household.  Once» 
as  I  was  entering  the  sick  room,  I  struck  rry  foot  against 
an  object,  which  I  instantly  recognized  as  a  coffin  awaiting 
the  morning  burial. 

When  the  fourth  of  July  came  Dr.  Clements  and 
Mr.  Chamberlain  insisted  that  I  was  to  go  to  Brooklyn 
for  a  short  rest.  But  at  the  end  of  three  days  I  was 
summoned  back  to  the  Institution  to  welccrre,  with  the 
customary  poem,  the  great  Irish  terrperance  advocate, 
Father  Mathew ;  and  the  brief  sojourn  of  the  grand  old 
man  in  our  midst  was  like  the  visit  of  an  angel  to  a  house 
of  death. 

" Daughter,  are  you  from  Ireland?"  he  asked  after 
I  had  warmly  praised  the  deeds  of  his  countrymen  in 
their  struggle  for  independence. 

"No,"  I  was  obliged  to  reply,  "but  I  love  Ireland." 
Then  the  kind  patriarch  of  temperance  laid  his  hand 
reverently  on  my  head,  and  his  touch  seemed  to  me  like 
that  of  a  saint  who  had  been  permitted  to  leave  his  abode 
in  heaven  for  one  single  moment  to  cheer  the  desolate 
children  of  earth. 

Not  many  days  after  his  visit  I  felt  that  I  had  some 
of  the  symptoms  of  cholera  myself;  and  during  the  day 


94  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


I  walked  about  a  great  deal  and  took  a  large  quantity 
of  the  cholera  pills;  for  I  was  well  aware  that  yielding 
to  the  disease  practically  meant  death.  Yet  I  did  not 
tell  any  of  those  around  me,  lest  I  should  frighten  them ; 
but  I  excused  myself  at  six  o'clock  saying  that  I  had  been 
several  nights  almost  without  any  sleep ;  and  after  a  good 
night's  rest,  at  eight  the  following  morning,  I  awakened 
to  find  myself  in  perfectly  normal  health.  When,  how- 
ever, it  became  known  that  I  had  been  in  danger  of  the 
disease,  there  was  a  hasty  consultation,  after  which, 
Mr.  Chamberlain  announced  that  I  was  to  leave  for  the 
country  on  the  first  of  August. 

So  I  left  the  sorrowing  city,  which  had  been  almost 
depopulated  by  the  departure  of  all  who  could  possibly 
retire  to  a  safer  place,  until  the  frosts  of  November  should 
kill  the  epidemic.  There  were  two  new  cases  at  the 
Institution  after  I  left,  and  three  deaths;  but  about  two 
weeks  later  the  twenty  pupils  who  remained  were  taken 
to  Whitlockville,  New  York,  for  the  rest  of  the  summer. 
In  late  October  the  mayor  of  New  York  wrote  a  very 
beautiful  letter  asking  his  scattered  people  to  return  to 
their  homes  because  the  danger  was  past;  and  so,  early 
in  November,  our  little  family  were  again  united. 

But  I  leave  these  sad  events  and  now  turn  back  almost 
ten  years,  to  1839  and  the  class-meetings  at  the  Eighteenth 
Street  Methodist  Church.  Some  of  us  used  to  go  down 
there  regularly,  and  on  Thursday  evening  of  each  week 
a  leader  came  from  that  church  to  conduct  a  class  in 
the  Institution.  In  those  days  I  was  timid  and  never 
spoke  in  public,  when  I  could  possibly  avoid  it;  and  I 


CONTRASTED   EVENTS  95 


must  confess  that  I  had  grown  somewhat  indifferent 
to  the  means  of  grace,  so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  I  attended 
the  meetings  and  played  for  them  on  the  condition  that 
they  should  not  call  on  me  to  speak. 

But  one  evening  the  leader  brought  a  young  man 
with  him  and  he  was  destined  to  have  an  important 
influence  on  my  life.  He  was  Mr.  Theodore  Camp, 
a  teacher  in  the  city  schools;  and  a  man  noted  for  his 
generous  public  spirit.  From  the  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance  I  found  him  a  true  friend;  and  I  used  to 
consult  him  concerning  all  matters  in  which  I  was  un- 
determined how  to  act.  In  1845  ne  was  placed  in  charge 
of  our  industrial  department ;  and  then  we  used  to  attend 
the  class  meetings  together,  but  he  never  urged  me  in 
religious  matters.  And  yet  I  owe  my  conversion  to  that 
same-  friend,  in  so  far  as  I  owe  it  to  any  mortal.  By 
a  strange  dream  I  was  aroused  from  a  comparative 
state  of  indifference.  Not  that  the  dream  had  any 
particular  effect,  in  itself,  except  as  the  means  of  setting 
me  to  thinking.  It  seemed  that  the  sky  had  been  cloudy 
for  a  number  of  days;  and  finally  someone  came  to  me 
and  said  that  Mr.  Camp  desired  to  see  me  at  once.  Then 
I  thought  I  entered  the  room  and  found  him  very  ill. 

"Fanny,  can  you  give  up  our  friendship?"  he  asked. 

'"No,  I  cannot;  you  have  been  my  advisor  and  friend 
and  what  could  I  do  without  your  aid  ?" 

"But,"  replied  he,  "why  would  you  chain  a  spirit 
to  earth  when  it  longs  to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest?" 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "I  cannot  give  you  up  of  myself 
but  I  will  seek  Divine  Assistance." 


96  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"But  will  you  meet  me  in  Heaven?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  God  helping  me,"  I  replied;  and  I 
I  thought  his  last  words  were,  "Remember  you  promise 
a  dying  man!"  Then  the  clouds  seemed  to  roll  from 
my  spirit,  and  I  awoke  from  the  dream  with  a  start. 
I  could  not  forget  those  words,  "Will  you  meet  me  in 
Heaven?"  and  although  my  friend  was  perfectly  well 
I  began  to  consider  whether  I  could  really  meet  him, 
or  any  other  acquaintance  in  the  Better  Land,  if  called 
to  do  so. 

The  weeks  sped  on  until  the  autumn  of  1850  when 
revival  meetings  were  being  held  in  the  Thirtieth  Street 
Methodist  Church.  Some  of  us  went  down  every 
evening;  and,  on  two  occasions,  I  sought  peace  at  the 
atlar,  but  did  not  find  the  joy  I  craved,  until  one  evening, 
November  20,  1850,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  light  must 
indeed  come  then  or  never;  and  so  I  arose  and  went  to 
the  altar  alone.  After  a  prayer  was  offered,  they  began 
to  sing  the  grand  old  consecration  hymn, 

"Alas,  and  did  my  Saviour  bleed, 
And  did  my  Sovereign  die?" 

And  when  they  reached  the  third  line  of  the  fourth  stanza, 
"Here  Lord,  I  give  myself  away," 

my  very  soul  was  flooded  with  a  celestial  light.  I  sprang 
to  my  feet,  shouting  "hallelujah,"  and  then  for  the  first 
time  I  realized  that  I  had  been  trying  to  hold  the  world 
in  one  hand  and  the  Lord  in  the  other. 

But  my  growth  in  grace  was  very  slow  from  the 


CONTRASTED   EVENTS  97 

beginning.  The  next  Thursday  evening  I  gave  a  public 
testimony  at  our  class  meeting;  when  I  finished  the 
tempter  said  to  me,  "Well,  Fanny,  you  made  a  good 
speech,  didn't  you?"  and  I  realized  at  once  that  this 
was  the  old  pride  returning  again  to  reign  in  my  heart. 
For  a  few  days  I  was  greatly  depressed  until  a  kind 
friend  suggested  that  I  must  "go  back  and  do  the  first 
works  quickly,"  which  meant  that  I  had  not  made  a  com- 
plete surrender  of  my  will;  and  then  I  promised  to  do 
my  duty  whenever  the  dear  Lord  should  make  it  plain 
to  me. 

But  not  many  weeks  later  Mr.  Stephen  Merritt  asked 
me  to  close  one  of  our  class  meetings  with  a  brief  prayer. 
My  first  thought  was  "I  can't";  then  the  voice  of  con- 
science said,  "but  your  promise";  and  from  that  hour, 
I  believe  I  have  never  refused  to  pray  or  speak  in  a  public 
service,  with  the  result  that  I  have  been  richly  blessed. 


CHAPTER  XII 
LITERARY  AND  MUSICAL  MEMORIES 

NOW  and  then  during  the  early  forties  I  con- 
tributed poems  to  the  "  Saturday  Evening 
Post"  and  the  "Clinton  Signal,"  for  which 
paper  Mr.  J.  F.  Chamberlain  and  Mr.  F. 
J.  Warner  also  wrote;  and  the  compositor  was  con- 
tinually confusing  the  initials  of  our  names,  so  that  it 
was  sometimes  difficult  for  our  friends  to  tell  just  which 
of  us  wrote  a  certain  piece.  Mr.  William  Wye  Smith 
wrote  for  the  "Saturday  Emporium,"  under  the  name 
of  "Rusticus,"  and  I  answered  him,  using  my  own  name. 
He  afterwards  became  an  Episcopalian  clergyman  and 
the  translator  of  the  Bible  into  the  old  Scotch  language; 
and  he  is  still  living  in  St.  Catherines,  Ontario.  I  also 
wrote  occasionally  for  the  "Fireman's  Journal,"  a  weekly 
supported  by  the  volunteer  companies  of  New  York,  in 
which  I  took  an  ardent  interest.  Most  of  my  poems, 
in  those  years,  were  imaginative  and  sentimental;  and 
one  of  them,  which  I  now  happen  to  remember,  begins 
like  this, 

"Let  me  die  on  the  prairie,  and  o'er  my  rude  grave 
'Mid  the  soft  winds  of  summer,  the  tall  grass  shall  wave ; 
I  would  breathe  my  last  sigh,  when  the  bright  hues  of 

even 
Are  fading  away  in  the  blue  arch  of  heaven." 


LITERARY  AND  MUSICAL  MEMORIES  99 

During  these  years  we  received  visits  from  a  large 
number  of  literary  men  and  women,  among  them  Thur- 
low  Weed,  Mrs.  Sigourney  and  Bayard  Taylor. 

One  bright  morning  in  April,  when  the  violets  were 
opening  their  tiny  buds  to  the  warm  sunshine  of  early 
spring,  the  Mayor,  Common  Council,  and  a  part  of  the 
Legislature  came  to  make  their  annual  call.  With  them 
also  came  Martin  F.  Tupper,  the  English  poet,  who  at 
that  time  was  a  very  popular  author  of  a  proverbial 
philosophy  in  verse.  He  was  asked  to  make  an  address; 
but,  not  being  an  adept  at  extempore  speaking,  he  told 
us  that  he  would  rather  recite  one  of  his  poems ;  and  he 
chose  one  entitled,  "Never  Give  Up,"  the  first  stanza 
of  which  runs  as  follows: 

"Never  give  up,  it  is  wiser  and  better 
Always  to  hope  than  once  to  despair, 
Throw  off  the  yoke  with  its  conquering  fetter, 
Yield  not  a  moment  to  sorrow  or  care. 
Never  give  up,  though  adversity  presses, 
Providence  wisely  has  mingled  the  cup; 
And  the  best  counsel  in  all  our  distresses 
Is  the  stout  watchword,  Never  give  up." 

But  when  Mr.  Tupper  reached  the  third  line  of  his 
poem  he  broke  down;  and  as  I  happened  to  be  familiar 
with  it,  and  was  sitting  directly  behind  him,  I  prompted 
him.  Then  he  began  again,  and  this  time  reached  the 
third  line  of  the  second  stanza,  when  his  memory  failed 
a  second  time.     I  repeated  the  line;  but,  evidently  not 


100  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

wishing  to  continue,  in  spite  of  his  title — "Never  Give 
Up" — he  turned  to  the  audience  and  said: 

"It  is  of  no  use;  this  lady  knows  my  poem  better 
than  I  do  myself;  and  therefore  I  will  sit  down." 

"William  Cullen  Bryant  is  coming  to  our  musical" 
was  the  watchword  that  passed  through  the  Institution 
one  day  in  1843;  and  teachers,  as  well  as  pupils,  could 
hardly  restrain  their  impatience  until  the  hour  of  the 
evening  entertainment.  We  knew  Mr.  Bryant  by  repu- 
tation, as  the  able  editor  of  the  "Evening  Post"  for 
almost  twenty  years;  and  we  had  been  delighted  by  the 
stories  of  travel  in  foreign  lands  which  he  occasionally 
wrote.  For  about  twenty-five  years  he  had  been  recog- 
nized by  all  classes  as  the  foremost  living  American 
poet;  and  he  was  frequently  called  "the  first  citizen  of 
the  Republic."  "  Thanatopsis  "  was  a  household  classic, 
and  is  said  to  be  the  sweetest  apology  for  Death  that  our 
literature  affords.  And  the  very  hand  of  Death  had 
been  stayed  and  the  gray  haired  patriarch  spared  to 
enjoy  the  plaudits  of  his  countrymen.  But  the  mind 
of  a  man  of  the  calibre  of  Bryant  is  never  turned  aside, 
either  by  the  world's  censure  or  its  praise. 

Wherever  he  went  impromptu  receptions  were  held 
in  his  honor;  and  we  had  the  privilege  of  meeting  him 
after  our  musical ;  but  I  had  small  hope  of  being  received 
otherwise  than  in  the  conventional  manner  by  so  great 
a  poet.  To  my  astonishment,  however,  Mr.  Bryant 
warmly  grasped  my  hand ;  and  said  a  few  words  in  com- 
mendation of  my  verses,  urging  me  to  press  bravely  on 
in  my  work  as  teacher  and  writer.    By  those  few  words 


LITERARY  AND   MUSICAL  MEMORIES  101 

he  did  inestimable  good  to  a  young  girl,  who  had  not 
dared  even  fancy  that  she  would  be  able  to  touch  the 
robe  of  such  a  great  poetic  genius. 

From  the  pleasant  recollection  of  Bryant,  I  turn  to 
a  far  different,  though  also  a  very  kindly  man,  Horace 
Greeley.  In  some  respects  he  was  the  most  remarkable 
person  I  have  known,  because  of  his  personal  eccen- 
tricities and  because  of  his  natural  brilliance.  Yet  he 
was  not  always  at  his  best  as  a  conversationalist;  and 
I  am  free  to  say  that  my  introduction  to  him  was  by  no 
means  under  favorable  circumstances.  I  was  invited 
to  a  New  Year's  party  in  1844  at  which  many  notable 
guests  were  to  be  present,  but  expectation  centered 
around  Mr.  Greeley;  and  when  he  was  announced  I 
believe  that  I  actually  held  my  breath,  so  great  was  my 
eagerness. 

But  instead  of  the  brilliant  and  genial  editor  I  found 
him  cool  and  laconic;  and  very  soon  he  bade  us  good 
evening.  When  I  informed  our  hostess,  who  was  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  that  I  was  rather  disappointed  in  Mr. 
Greeley,  she  laughed,  and  the  incident  passed;  but  within 
five  months  I  was  given  a  delightful  chance  to  change 
my  opinion  of  the  great  editor  and  founder  of  the  uNew 
York  Tribune."  We  again  met  in  the  same  drawing 
room  as  before  and  many  of  the  guests  were  the  same, — 
but  Mr.  Greeley  was  completely  transformed;  at  least 
he  seemed  so  to  me.  For  the  entire  evening  he  was 
the  center  of  an  attentive  company,  and  everyone  wanted 
his  opinion  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects.  His  answers 
were  direct  and  simple,  with  no  parade  of  wisdom;  no 


102  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

consciousness  on  his  part  of  intellectual  superiority; 
and  music,  art  and  politics,  in  fact  nearly  every  depart- 
ment of  human  knowledge  or  of  human  endeavor,  seemed 
to  interest  him  and  to  share  his  own  wit. 

The  second  meeting  with  Horace  Greeley  taught  me 
that  first  impressions,  although  they  are  sometimes  most 
lasting,  yet  often  are  most  unjust.  This  was  my  thought 
as  I  returned  homeward  after  enjoying  the  sparkle  of 
Horace  Greeley's  wit,  and  I  was  willing  to  crown  his 
brow  with  fadeless  laurels. 

We  also  had  the  privilege  of  listening  to  some  of 
the  world's  greatest  singers.  Jenny  Lind  came  to  our 
school,  taking  us  by  surprise;  and  for  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  she  charmed  us  with  such  music  as  I  never  heard 
before,  or  since,  nor  do  I  hope  to  listen  to  such  melodies 
again  until  I  hear  the  choirs  of  the  Eternal  City. 

The  year  before,  that  is,  1843,  one  of  the  great  New 
York  newspapers  had  offered  a  prize  for  the  best  poem 
on  any  subject  that  one  chose  to  select.  Some  of  my 
indulgent  friends  persuaded  me  to  enter  the  competition, 
and  I  chose  to  write  a  tribute  to  Jenny  Lind.  My  friend 
Bayard  Taylor  won  the  prize;  but  I  believe  I  won  as 
great  an  honor;  and  I  know  an  honor  more  pleasing  to 
me,  in  being  permitted  to  deliver  my  poem  in  the  presence 
of  Jenny  Lind  herself;  for,  when  she  came  to  visit  us, 
I  welcomed  the  "Swedish  Nightingale"  in  the  following 
stanzas : 

"We  ask  no  more  why  strains  like  thine 
Enchant  a  listening  throng, 
For  we  have  felt  in  one  sweet  hour 
The  magic  of  thy  song. 


LITERARY  AND   MUSICAL  MEMORIES  103 

— — — ^ — ^— — — — — ^— — ■■■■■■ g^giM 

"How  like  the  carol  of  a  bird, 
It  stole  upon  my  ear! 
Then  tenderly  it  died  away 
In  echoes  soft  and  clear. 

"But  hark!  again  its  music  breaks 
Harmonious  on  the  soul; 
How  thrills  the  heart,  at  every  tone, 
With  bliss  beyond  control! 

"If  strains  like  these,  so  pure  and  sweet, 
To  mortal  lips  be  given, 
What  must  the  glorious  anthems  be 
Which  angels  wake  in  heaven? 

"'Tis  past;  'tis  gone.    That  fair>'  dream 
Of  happiness  is  o'er; 
And  we  the  music  of  thy  voice 
Perhaps  may  hear  no  more. 

"Yet,  Sweden's  daughter,  thou  shalt  live 
In  even'  grateful  heart; 
And  may  the  choicest  gifts  of  heaven 
Be  thine,  where'er  thou  art." 

Among  the  singers  who  came  a  number  of  times 
were  Adeline  Patti  and  Clara  Louise  Kellogg;  and  the 
visit  of  Madam  LeGrange,  while  she  was  in  America 
on  a  special  tour,  was  also  a  notable  event.  Madam 
IxGrange  was  asked  to  sing  in  the  chorus  of  "Stabat 
Mater."  In  the  midst  of  one  of  the  solos  she  burst  into 
tear?  because  of  her  sympathy  for  our  pupils  in  what 


104  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

she  took  to  be  a  great  affliction;  but,  with  a  noble  effort, 
she  suppressed  her  emotion,  lest  she  might  injure  the 
feelings  of  those  who  were  sensitive;  and  thereby  won 
our  hearty  admiration. 

In  the  midst  of  these  pleasant  surroundings  my  muse 
occasionally  plumed  herself  for  a  flight.  "The  Blind 
Girl  and  Other  Poems"  had  been  so  cordially  received 
by  the  public  that  my  friends  urged  me  to  publish  another 
book;  but,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  my  health  for  five  or 
six  years  had  been  somewhat  impaired,  such  a  task 
seemed  out  of  the  question.  A  number  of  public  occa- 
sions, however,  had  called  for  special  efforts  on  my  part, 
with  the  result  that  another  volume  of  poems  was  col- 
lected and  published  in  1851.  The  first  piece,  which 
gave  the  title  to  the  book,  was  called  "Monterey";  and 
it  was  a  long-spun  poem,  the  chief  merit  of  which  is  a  few 
sincere  words  of  dedication  to  three  of  my  friends,  Mr. 
Murray,  Dr.  Clements  and  Mr.  Chamberlain.  Now  as 
I  realize  that  these  three  dear  men  have  passed  beyond 
the  sound  of  human  voices  the  remembrance  of  their 
many  kind  acts  is  sweetened  and  deepened  as  I  recall  my 
early  tributes  to  them;  and  these  flowers  of  memory  are 
still  fadeless  and  fragrant. 


CHAPTER   XIII 
A  LESSON  IN  SELF  RELIANCE 

THERE  is  still  another  man,  famous  in  the 
annals  of  our  nation,  whom  I  am  proud  to 
count  among  my  freinds,  and  now  while  I 
write  of  him  the  tide  of  memory  turns  agian 
bearing  me  backward  more  than  fifty  years  on  its  tranquil 
bosom,  and  recalling  a  lesson  in  self  reliance  that  he 
taught  me.  One  morning  in  1853,  the  late  Mr.  William 
Cleveland,  our  principal  teacher,  came  to  my  class-room 
and  said, 

"I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  My  brother,  as  you 
may  know,  has  been  appointed  secretary  to  the  superin- 
tendent. But  the  death  of  our  father  grieves  him  very 
much;  and  when  you  are  at  leisure  I  wish  you  would 
speak  to  him  and  try  to  divert  his  mind  from  sad  thoughts. 
You  can  comfort  him  better  than  I  can."  And  I  promsed 
to  do  my  best. 

That  afternoon  I  went  into  the  office  and  there  found 
Grover  Cleveland,  a  young  man  of  about  seventeen, 
engaged  in  his  work  as  private  secretary.  We  exchanged 
a  few  sentences  and  I  agreed  to  come  again  the  next 
day;  for  from  that  hour  that  we  first  met  a  friendship 
sprang  up  between  us,  the  links  of  which  must  have 
been  woven  by  angel  fingers. 

During  the  hours  in  which  he  was  not  engaged  with 
his  office  work,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  my  poems 

105 


106  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

as  I  dictated  them  to  him.  Mr.  Chamberlain,  my  old 
friend,  already  frequently  mentioned,  was  not  superin- 
tendent then;  but,  in  his  stead,  we  had  a  man  who  ex- 
pected that  all  due  deference  should  be  paid  to  himself. 
Not  that  he  did  not  wish  Mr.  Cleveland  to  copy  my 
verses,  but  rather  that  he  thought  any  request  should 
be  made  through  him.  At  that  time,  however,  I  was 
thirty -five  years  of  age  and  employed  as  preceptress  at 
the  Institution;  and  felt,  therefore,  that  I  was  entitled 
to  the  privilege  of  making  my  own  requests,  whenever 
and  of  whomsoever  I  wished,  provided  that  I  was  not 
breaking  any  of  the  rules  or  customs  of  the  school. 

But,  much  as  I  felt  this,  I  hardly  dared  assert  my 
rights  in  the  matter:  and  so  I  said  nothing  one  after- 
noon when  the  superintendent  came  in  and  forbade 
me  to  call  on  my  young  amanuensis  without  consulting 
him.  After  he  had  gone  "Grove" — as  we  then  called 
him —  turned  to  me  and  said, 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  let  that  man  trample 
on  your  feelings  in  this  manner?" 

"What  shall  I  do?"  I  asked.  He  laughed  and 
replied, 

"You  are  certainly  within  your  own  rights.  So,  if 
you  have  a  poem  to  be  copied  tomorrow,  come  down 
here,  and  exactly  the  same  scene  will  occur  as  has  occurred 
today.  Then,  you  will  have  an  opportunity  to  give 
him  as  good  as  he  sends;  and  if  you  have  never  learned 
the  lesson  of  self  reliance,  you  certainly  cannot  learn 
it  earlier." 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  have  some  copying  done, 


A  LESSON  IX  SELF  RELIANCE  107 

my  little  speech  all  ready;  and  when  the  superintendent 
again  objected  I  "asserted  my  rights,"  with  the  result 
that  he  hastily  retreated  leaving  the  field  in  our  possession ; 
and  so  it  remained  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Cleveland  and  I  were  constantly  associated  in 
our  work  for  more  than  a  year;  then  he  left  the  Institution ; 
and  our  paths  diverged;  but  my  interest  in  him  has 
never  waned,  and  I  have  watched  his  career  with  unusual 
pleasure;  not  that  I  was  in  the  least  surprised,  for  all 
of  us  expected  noble  things  from  him ;  but  because  of 
my  own  personal  regard  for  his  many  excellent  traits 
of  character.  Some  years  ago  I  called  at  his  home  in 
Lake  wood,  New  Jersey,  and  we  spent  a  delightful  hour, 
reviewing  the  memories  of  the  the  New  York  of  fifty 
years  ago.  In  honor  of  their  daughter  Ruth  I  recited 
the  following  poem  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleveland: 

"Like  the  lily  bells  that  blossom 

In  the  bowers  of  Eden  fair, 
All  their  pretty  leaves  unfolding 

To  the  breeze  that  murmurs  there, 
Like  a  jewel  bright  and  sparkling 

From  the  peerless  brow  of  Truth, 
Like  a  birdling  with  the  autumn, 

Came  your  winsome  Baby  Ruth. 

"There  are  feelings  deep  and  tender, 
There  are  joys  you  could  not  know 
Till  a  cherub  in  your  household 
Bade  the  hidden  fountains  flow. 


108  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Now,  a  love  its  smile  reflecting 
From  the  peaceful  eye  of  Truth, 

Like  a  radiant  star  is  shining 
O'er  your  gentle  Baby  Ruth. 

"In  a  fancied  dream  I  linger, 

As  the  evening  time  draws  nigh, 
And  I  listen  to  the  carol 

Of  her  mamma's  lullaby, 
While  her  papa,  grave  and  thoughtful, 

As  in  years  of  vanished  youth, 
Lays  his  hand  with  fond  caressing 

On  the  head  of  Baby  Ruth. 

"By  a  holy  consecration 

That  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 
You  have  answered  Him  who  whispered 

'Bring  your  little  ones  to  me.' 
You  have  brought  her,  pure  and  lovely, 

To  the  Way,  the  Life,  the  Truth, 
And  His  seal  is  on  the  forehead 

Of  your  precious  Baby  Ruth. 

"May  you  train  her  in  the  knowledge 

And  the  wisdom  of  the  Lord, 
May  you  teach  her  to  be  faithful, 

And  obedient  to  His  word. 
With  the  lamp,  whose  beams  are  kindled 

At  the  throne  of  sacred  truth, 
May  you  guide  the  coming  future 

Of  your  darling  Baby  Ruth." 


A  LESSON  IX  SELF  RELIANCE  109 

In  March,  1903,  a  man  professing  to  be  a  friend 
of  mine  wrote  to  Mr.  Cleveland  to  the  effect  that  it  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  hand  me  a  birthday  letter  if  he  would 
be  kind  enough  to  write  one.  This  was  done,  but  the 
professed  friend  sold  the  ex-President's  note  to  a  news- 
paper, and  the  first  that  I  heard  of  it  was  when  a 
reporter  called  to  see  if  the  letter  was  genuine.  An- 
other copy  was  sent  to  me  directly  through  the  mail; 
and  I  am  glad  to  quote  from  it: 

"As  an  old  friend,"  says  Mr.  Cleveland,  "it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  congratulate  you  on  your  coming  birth- 
day, which  marks  so  many  years  of  usefulness  and  duty. 
I  am  rejoiced  to  know  that  your  character  and  work 
are  amply  appreciated  by  good,  kind  friends,  who  stand 
about  you  in  your  advancing  years  to  cheer  and  comfort 
you.  I  remember  our  association  fifty  years  ago ;  and  it 
gratifies  me  to  say  that  you,  who  have  brought  cheer 
and  comfort  to  so  many  in  the  past,  richly  deserve  now 
the  greatest  amount  of  grateful  acknowledgement,  and 
all  the  rich  recompense,  which  the  love  of  friends  and 
the  approval  of  God  can  supply." 

When  plans  were  being  made  to  celebrate  my  eighty- 
fifth  birthday  in  March,  1905,  Mr.  Cleveland  wrote 
another  beautiful  letter,  the  text  of  which  follows: 

"My  dear  friend: 

"It  is  more  than  fifty  years  ago  that  our 
acquaintance  and  friendship  began;  and  ever  since  that 
time  I  have  watched  your  continuous  and  disinterested 


110  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

labor  in  uplifting  humanity,  and  pointing  out  the  way 
to  an  appreciation  of  God's  goodness  and  mercy. 

"Though  these  labors  have,  I  know,  brought  you 
abundant  rewards  in  your  consciousness  of  good  accom- 
plished, those  who  have  known  of  your  works  and  sym- 
pathized with  your  noble  purposes  owe  it  to  themselves 
that  you  are  apprized  of  their  remembrance  of  these 
things.  I  am,  therefore,  exceedingly  gratified  to  learn 
that  your  eighty-fifth  birthday  is  to  be  celebrated  with 
a  demonstration  of  this  remembrance.  As  one  proud 
to  call  you  an  old  friend,  I  desire  to  be  early  in  congratu- 
lating you  on  your  long  life  of  usefulness,  and  wishing 
you  in  the  years  yet  to  be  added  to  you,  the  peace  and 
comfort  born  of  the  love  of  God. 

"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"Grover  Cleveland." 

These  letters  from  my  friend  I  prize  among  my  most 
valued  treasures ;  and  of  all  the  great  men  in  public  life, 
whom  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  know,  I  consider 
him  to  be  one  of  the  greatest ;  and  in  my  affection  and 
esteem  he  holds  a  place  that  no  other  statesman  could 
possibly  occupy, 


CHAPTER  XIV 
EARLY  SONGS  AND  HYMNS 

IN  1845  Mr.  George  F.  Root  began  to  give  in- 
struction in  music  at  the  Institution;  already 
he  was  well  known  as  the  composer  of  many 
sweet  hymns  and  various  secular  pieces  that 
were  exceedingly  popular.  He  used  to  play  many  of 
his  melodies  for  me ;  and  frequently  asked  me  to  write 
words  for  them.  One  day  in  1 851  he  played  an  air 
that  was  wonderfully  sweet  and  touching;  and  I 
exclaimed. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Root,  why  don't  you  publish  that?" 
"I  have  no  words  for  it,"  he  replied,  "and  cannot 
purchase  any."    I  suggested  that  he  let  me  try  to  write 
something;  he  assented;  and  I  composed  a  song  be- 
ginning as  follows: 

"O  come  to  the  greenwood,  where  nature  is 

smiling, 
Come  to  the  greenwood,  so  lovely  and  gay, 
There  will  soft  music  thy  spirit  beguiling 
Tenderly  carol  thy  sadness  away." 

Our  first  joint  composition  was  a  song,  entitled 
"Fare  Thee  Well,  Kitty  Dear,"  which  described  the 
grief  of  a  colored  man  on  the  death  of  his  beloved;  and 
the  chorus  runs  like  this, 

111 


112  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Fare  thee  well,  Kitty  dear, 
Thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  grave  so  low, 
Nevermore,  Kitty  dear, 
Wilt  thou  listen  to  my  old  banjo." 

During  the  next  three  years  we  composed  fifty  or 
sixty  songs,  some  of  the  titles  of  which  are  "Bird  of  the 
North,"  "Hazel  Dell,"  "They  Have  Sold  Me  Down  the 
River,"  "O  How  Glad  to  Get  Home,"  "Rosalie  the 
Prairie  Flower"  and  "There's  Music  in  the  Air." 

The  success  of  the  concerts  given  by  William  B. 
Bradbury  at  the  Broadway  Tabernacle  inspired  Mr.  Root 
to  attempt  something  in  the  same  manner;  and  accord- 
ingly in  1835  we  wrote  "The  Flower  Queen,"  a  cantata, 
the  story  of  which  is  as  follows:  an  old  man  becoming 
tired  of  the  world,  decides  to  become  a  hermit;  but,  as 
he  is  about  to  retire  to  his  lonely  hut,  he  hears  a  chorus 
singing,  "Who  shall  be  queen  of  the  flowers?"  His 
interest  is  at  once  aroused ;  and  on  the  following  day  he 
is  asked  to  act  as  judge  in  a  contest  where  each  flower 
urges  her  claims  to  be  queen  of  all  the  others.  At  length 
the  hermit  chooses  the  rose  for  her  loveliness;  and  in 
turn  she  exhorts  him  to  return  to  the  world  and  to  his 
duty. 

I  believe  that  "The  Flower  Queen"  was  the  first 
American  cantata;  and  it  was  immediately  in  great 
demand.  It  was  followed  by  the  "Pilgrim  Fathers," 
for  which  Dr.  Lowell  Mason  assisted  in  composing  the 
music. 

On  March  2,  1858,  I  left  the  New  York  Institution 


EARLY  SONGS  AND   HYMNS  113 

for  the  Blind;  and  my  parting  from  those  familiar  sur- 
roundings was  indeed  sad;  for  I  had  been  there  nearly 
twenty-three  years,  eight  as  a  pupil,  and  fifteen  as  a 
teacher.  Prior  to  this  I  had  written  no  hymns,  except 
possibly  one  or  two  short  religious  poems  that  may  have 
been  set  to  music;  but  I  had  been  engaged  in  writing 
verses  and  short  prose  sketches  for  several  papers.  The 
best  of  my  work  had  been  collected  into  three  books, 
although  the  great  bulk  of  personal  and  miscellaneous 
pieces  were  never  gathered  together;  and  I  am  indeed 
glad  that  they  were  not.  The  third  book  of  poems 
was  compiled  a  few  months  after  I  left  the  Institution, 
under  the  title  of  "A  Wreath  of  Columbia's  Flowers"; 
and  it  suffered  more  than  the  others  from  the  need  of 
careful  pruning  and  revision. 

In  1858  I  was  married  to  Mr.  Alexander  Van  Alstyne 
whom  I  had  known  as  pupil  and  teacher  in  the  Institution 
for  almost  fifteen  years.  By  nature  he  was  endowed 
with  superior  musical  ability;  and,  before  he  graduated 
from  our  school,  he  was  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished students  that  we  ever  had  there.  He  continued 
his  education  in  Union  College,  where  in  addition  to 
music  he  studied  classics  and  theology;  and  then  he 
taught  at  Albion,  New  York,  until  1855  when  he  returned 
to  teach  in  our  school,  which  he  continued  to  do,  with 
rare  skill  and  sympathy  with  his  pupils  for  three  years. 

After  our  marriage  he  insisted  that  my  literary  name 
should  remain  as  it  had  become  known  to  the  public 
in  general  through  my  poems.  Our  tastes  were  congenial 
and  he  composed  the  music  to  several  of  my  hymns 


114  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

besides  constantly  aiding  me  with  kind  criticism  and 
advice.  At  different  times  he  was  organist  in  two  of 
the  New  York  churches;  and  also  taught  private  classes 
in  both  vocal  and  instrumental  music.  He  was  a  firm, 
trustful  Christian  and  a  man  whose  kindly  deeds  and 
cheering  words  will  not  be  forgotten  by  his  many  friends. 
We  were  happy  together  many  years.  His  death  occurred 
on  July  1 8,  1902. 

As  early  as  i860  the  name  of  William  B.  Bradbury 
was  familiar  to  all  lovers  of  music.  To  the  Christian 
world  he  was  known  principally  as  the  author  of  a  large 
collection  of  sweet  melodies,  many  of  which  have  found 
their  way  into  the  best  collection  of  hymns.  Prior  to 
1864  I  had  never  met  this  gifted  composer;  but  I  had 
often  fancied  that  our  tastes  might  be  congenial;  and; 
on  this  account,  I  was  somewhat  anxious  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  The  opportunity  to  do  so  soon  came 
through  the  Rev.  Peter  Stryker,  the  minister  of  the 
Dutch  Reformed  Church  in  Twenty-third  Street,  which 
I  frequently  attended.  In  December,  1863,  Mr.  Stry- 
ker asked  me  to  write  a  short  poem  that  could  be 
used  as  a  hymn  in  the  closing  services  of  the  year.  Early 
in  January  he  came  to  me  and  said, 

"Why  don't  you  see  Mr.  Bradbury?  He  has  told 
me  more  than  once  that  he  was  looking  for  someone  who 
could  write  hymns.  I  think  you  are  the  person  for 
whom  he  has  been  looking  and  I  will  give  you  a  letter 
of  introduction." 

In  consequence  of  this  arrangement,  on  February  2, 
1864,  I  presented  myself  at  the  office  of  William  B. 


EARLY  SONGS  AND  HYMNS  115 

Bradbury,  425   Broome   Street.     To  my  surprise  Mr. 
Bradbury  said, 

"Fanny,  I  thank  God  that  we  have  at  last  met; 
for  I  think  you  can  write  hymns ;  and  I  have  wished  for 
a  long  time  to  have  a  talk  with  you."  At  the  end  of 
a  brief  interview  I  promised  to  bring  him  something 
before  the  week  drew  to  a  close;  and  three  days  later  I 
returned  with  some  verses  that  were  soon  set  to  music 
and  published  as  my  first  hymn.  There  were  four 
stanzas;  and  three  of  them  I  will  quote  here: 

"We  are  going,  we  are  going 
To  a  home  beyond  the  skies, 
Where  the  fields  are  robed  in  beauty, 
And  the  sunlight  never  dies; 

"Where  the  fount  of  joy  is  flowing 
In  the  valley  green  and  fair. 
W7e  shall  dwell  in  love  together; 
There  shall  be  no  parting  there. 

"We  are  going,  we  are  going, 
And  the  music  we  have  heard, 
Like  the  echo  of  the  woodland, 
Or  the  carol  of  a  bird." 

The  following  week  Mr.  Bradbury  sent  for  me  in 
great  haste;  and  said  that  he  wanted  a  patriotic  song 
at  once.  As  a  title  he  chose  "A  Sound  Among  the 
Mulberry  Trees";  but  I  timidly  suggested  that  "Forest 
Trees"  would  be  more   euphonious,  to  which  idea  he 


116  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

at  once  assented.  The  melody  that  he  had  composed 
was  somewhat  difficult;  but,  having  heard  it  two  or 
three  times,  I  was  able  to  count  the  measure,  and  the 
words  were  then  easily  adapted.  On  the  following 
morning  I  carried  the  song  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Bradbury, 
but  he  was  not  there;  and  so  his  bookkeeper,  who  was 
also  a  musical  man,  played  it  on  the  piano,  exclaiming, 
"How  in  the  world  did  you  manage  to  write  that  hymn? 
Nobody  ever  supposed  that  you,  or  any  other  mortal, 
could  adapt  words  to  that  melody." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Bradbury  entered  the  office ;  and 
after  looking  over  the  hymn  very  carefully,  turned  to  me 
and  exclaimed, 

"Fanny,  I  am  surprised  beyond  measure;  and,  now, 
let  me  say  that  as  long  as  I  have  a  publishing  house, 
you  will  always  have  work."  The  future  verified  his 
promise,  for  I  have  been  with  Mr.  Bradbury  and  his 
successors,  the  Biglow  and  Main  Company,  more  than 
forty  years. 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE   LIFE  OF  A  HYMN-WRITER 

THE  song  "There  is  a  Sound  Among  the 
Forest  Trees"  was  used  during  the  Civil 
War;  but  after  that  cruel  conflict  was  over 
I  said  to  Mr.  Bradbury, 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  'Forest  Trees'?" 

"What  can  we  do  with  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh,"  I  replied,  "we  can  write  sacred  words  to  the 
melody;  and  indeed  the  subject  comes  tome  now:  'There's 
A  Cry  from  Macedonia.'"  With  his  permission  I  com- 
posed a  missionary  hymn  that  was  very  popular  for  many 
years ;  and  thus  my  life  as  a  writer  of  gospel  hymns  began 
under  most  favorable  circumstances. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Bradbury  gave  me  the  titles  for 
hymns  to  melodies  already  written;  but  more  often  I 
was  allowed  to  make  my  own  selection ;  and  a  part  of  my 
duties  was  to  revise  poems  that  Mr.  Bradbury  had  already 
secured  from  other  authors.  During  a  period  of  four 
years  we  worked  side  by  side,  until,  at  length,  in  April, 
1866,  he  was  taken  very  ill;  and  the  following  winter 
was  obliged  to  go  South  for  three  months.  At  the  end 
of  this  period  he  returned  greatly  benefited  by  the  change, 
but  all  of  his  associates  at  the  office  were  reluctantly 
forced  to  admit  that  consumption  was  slowly  wearing 
his  life  away.  Yet  his  vitality  and  heroic  resistance 
were  wonderful ;  and  he  was  able  to  compose  many  beau- 
tiful melodies. 

117 


118  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

One  afternoon,  in  the  autumn  of  1867,  he  called  me 
to  him  and  said, 

"These  interviews  have  been  very  pleasant  to  me, 
but  they  will  soon  be  over;  I  am  going  to  be  forever  with 
the  Lord ;  and  I  will  await  you  on  the  bank  of  the  river." 

I  was  greatly  moved  by  his  words,  and  cried, 

"Oh,  must  I  lose  a  friendship  that  I  have  enjoyed 
so  much?" 

"No,"  replied  he,  "take  up  my  life-work  where  I  lay 
it  down ;  and  you  will  not  indeed  lose  a  friendship,  though 
I  am  going  away  from  you,  but  rather  strengthen  it  by 
striving  to  carry  out  my  own  ideals." 

At  a  cloudless  sunset,  January  the  seventh,  1868,  Mr. 
Bradbury  passed  away.  The  children  always  loved 
him  dearly;  and  on  the  day  of  his  funeral  they  brought 
a  wreath  of  oak  leaves  and  laid  it  tenderly  upon  his 
casket.  To  me  the  sad  occasion  was  the  more  memorable 
because  the  first  hymn  that  we  wrote  together  was  sung 
during  the  service;  but  the  lines  of  my  own  production 
brought  comfort  to  my  aching  heart,  when  I  realized 
what  a  friend  had  passed  to  his  reward,  and  that  he  had 
gone  to  that  country 

"Where  the  fields  are  robed  in  beauty, 
And  the  sunlight  never  dies/ 

I  met  Theodore  E.  Perkins  in  June,  1864,  and  also 
Philip  .Phillips  about  the  same  time.  The  first  hymn 
that  I  wrote  for  Mr.  Perkins  was : 

"I  know  thou  art  praying  tonight,  mother, 
I  know  thou  art  praying  for  me." 


THE   LIFE   OF  A  HYMN-WRITER  119 

Mr.  Bradbury  introduced  me  to  Philip  Phillips  at  the 
store;  he  had  come  from  Cincinnati;  and  already  knew 
me  somewhat  by  reputation.  As  they  were  going  through 
the  store,  Mr.  Phillips  said,  laughingly,  "Fanny,  I  wish 
you  would  write  me  a  hymn,  and  have  it  ready  when 
we  return."  "  This  is  Mr.  Bradbury's  time,"  said  I, 
"and  will  you  ask  his  permission  ?"  Mr.  Bradbury  said, 
"Oh,  Fanny,  that  is  all  right."  So  I  wrote  three  or  four 
stanzas  while  they  were  gone;  Mr.  Phillips  liked  them 
very  much;  and  from  that  time  often  called  on  me  for 
hymns  to  use  in  his  evangelistic  meetings. 

In  1866  Mr.  Phillips  published  a  collection  of  hymns 
called  the  "  Singing  Pilgrim  " ;  and  while  he  was  preparing 
that  book  he  sent  me  forty  titles  to  which  I  composed 
words  and  not  a  single  poem  was  written  by  my  amanuen- 
sis until  the  whole  number  was  completed.  They  were 
then  forwarded  to  Mr.  Phillips  at  Cincinnati;  he  again 
sent  me  a  long  list  of  titles  and  they  were  treated  exactly 
as  the  first  forty  had  been.  This  incident  is  not  told  to 
commend  myself,  but  merely  to  illustrate  to  what  extent 
memory  will  serve  us,  if  we  only  give  memory  a  fair 
chance.  The  mind  appears  to  rre  like  a  great  storehouse 
into  which  we  place  various  articles  for  safe  keeping  and 
sometimes  even  forget  that  they  are  there,  but,  sooner 
or  later,  we  find  them;  and  so  I  lay  aside  my  intellectual 
wares  for  some  future  day  of  need ;  and  in  the  mean  time 
often  forget  them,  until  the  call  comes  for  a  hymn. 

Shortly  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Bradbury  the  firm  of 
Biglow  and  Main  was  organized.  Of  Sylvester  Main  I 
have  already  spoken  and  told  the  story  of  our  meeting 


120  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

thirty-five  years  after  we  had  known  each  other  in  Ridge- 
field.  From  his  sixteenth  year  he  had  been  a  singing 
teacher  and  a  well  known  chorister  in  Norfolk  Street 
Methodist  Church  in  New  York  City.  Two  years,  or 
more,  previous  to  my  meeting  with  him  at  the  office  of 
Mr.  Bradbury,  he  had  been  associated  in  the  publishing 
business,  and  he  continued  as  a  member  of  the  firm  until 
his  lamented  death  in  1873;  and  I  always  found  him 
a  faithful  counsellor  and  a  friend  whose  memory  I  highly 
prize.    His  last  words  were, 

"The  dear  Lord  is  about  to  give  me  rest.  If  you 
love  me,  do  not  weep,  but  rejoice.,,  These  words  of 
cheer,  coming  as  the  parting  message  of  one  whom  I 
had  loved,  in  after  years  proved  a  source  of  inspiration 
and  comfort  in  many  an  hour  of  depression;  and  the 
words  of  one  of  my  own  hymns,  for  which  his  son,  Hubert 
P.  Main,  wrote  beautiful  music  oftenre  call  sweet 
memories  of  him,  and  many  other  friends,  who  await 
me  in  the  Better  Land: 

"On  the  banks  beyond  the  river 
We  shall  meet  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  bright,  the  bright  forever, 
In  the  Summerland  of  song." 

L.H.  Biglow,  the  senior  member  of  the  firm,  continued 
the  publishing  business  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Main. 
For  thirty  years  we  were  constantly  associated  together, 
and  during  this  time  not  the  slightest  misunderstanding 
arose  between  us,  so  that,  although  not  now  connected 
with  the  firm,  he  still  remains  my  trusted  friend  as  in 


THE   LIFE   OF  A  HYMN-WRITER  121 

the  days  when  we  more  frequently  met.  Hubert  P. 
Main  I  have  known  since  i860,  and  he  has  always  been 
of  valuable  service  to  me  in  criticising  my  work,  for  which 
his  knowledge  of  hymns,  both  ancient  and  mod.  rn,  has 
well  fitted  him.  His  musical  library  ha .  been  the  scene 
of  many  pleasant  talks  concerning  the  writing  of  hymns 
and  their  accompanying  melodies.  For  many  years  he 
has  been  the  accomplished  compiler  for  the  Biglow  and 
Main  Company,  and  he  has  set  to  music  some  of  my  best 
hymns,  including  such  favorites  as  "The  Bright  Forever," 
"Hold  Thou  my  Hand,"  "Blessed  Homeland,"  "The 
Blessed  Rock,"  "Yes,  There's  Pardon  For  You,"  and 
many  others. 

Previous  to  1870  the  Biglow  and  Main  hymns  were 
widely  known  in  several  foreign  countries,  especially  in 
England.  Our  publishing  house  was  the  rendezvous  of 
a  company  of  musical  men,  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  together  after  the  publication  of  a  new  book, 
for  the  purpose  of  singing  it  through  from  cover  to  cover. 
Among  these  musical  friends  may  be  mentioned  Hubert 
P.  Main,  William  F.  Sherwin,  Theodore  F.  Seward, 
Henry  Tucker,  Chester  G.  Allen,  Philip  Phillips  and 
Theodore  E.  Perkins,  but  of  this  merry  group  Mr.  Main 
and  Mr.  Perkins  are  all  that  now  survive. 

From  1872  until  the  time  of  her  death,  seven  years 
later,  Frances  Ridley  Havergal  and  I  corresponded  at 
frequent  intervals,  and  she  wrote  me  a  poem  of  tribute, 
an  extract  from  which  will  be  found  later  in  this  book, 
together  with  an  account  of  the  incident  that  led  her 
to  thus  remember  me. 


122  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

My  recollection  of  Rev.  Dr.  Robert  Lowry  dates 
from  1866.  The  first  hymn  of  mine  for  which  he  com- 
posed the  music  was  "All  the  Way  my  Saviour  Leads 
Me."  He  used  to  read  to  us  selections  from  favorite 
authors  during  the  long  summer  afternoons,  and  I  well 
remember  his  reading  Browning's  "Rabbi  Ben  Ezra" 
a  poem  of  which  he  was  very  fond,  and  how  it  reminded 
us  all  of  the  good  doctor  himself. 

"Grow  old  along  with  me,  the  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life  for  which  the  first  was  planned." 

As  a  critic  Dr.  Lowry  was  possessed  of  excellent 
taste,  and  we  never  so  much  as  thought  of  appealing 
from  any  decision  of  his  whenever  the  question  in  dispute 
related  either  to  poetry  or  music,  for  his  ear  was  trained 
to  detect  the  minutest  metrical  fault.  In  1897  he  assisted 
me  in  the  selection  of  my  best  hymns  and  poems  for 
a  book  called  "Bells  at  Evening"  for  which  he  wrote 
a  very  sympathetic  biographical  introduction  from 
material  mostly  furnished  by  Hubert  P.  Main. 

Ere  long,  however,  Dr.  Lowry's  health  began  to 
fail  and  we  watched  him  with  growing  anxiety.  I  shall 
always  recall  our  last  meeting  at  his  home  in  Plainfield, 
New  Jersey,  with  tender  emotions.  We  talked  together 
of  many  of  the  events  of  thirty  years,  and  finally  he  said, 

"Fanny,  I  am  going  to  join  those  who  have  gone 
before,  for  my  work  is  now  done."  I  could  not  speak 
with  him  concerning  the  parting  without  betraying  my 
grief,  so  I  simply  took  his  hand  in  mine  and  said  quietly, 

"I  thank  you,  Doctor  Lowry,  for  all  that  you  have 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  HYMN-WRITER  123 

done  for  me;  good  night,  until  we  meet  in  the  morning." 
Then  I  silently  went  down  the  stairs,  with  the  impression 
on  my  mind  that  the  good  man  would  soon  be  at  rest 
from  his  labors,  and  so  indeed  it  proved. 

"A  little  while  to  weep  for  those  we  cherish, 
As  one  by  one  they  near  the  river's  brink; 
A  little  while  to  catch  their  sweet  assurance, 
That  we  in  heaven  shall  find  each  missing  link; 
A  little  while  and  then  the  glorious  dawning 
Of  that  fair  morn  beyond  the  swelling  tide, 
When  we  shall  wake  and  in  our  Saviour's  likeness, 
Perfect  and  pure,  we  shall  be  satisfied." 

Although  some  of  my  most  treasured  friends  have 
passed  beyond  the  sound  of  human  voices,  others  (here 
are  who  remain  to  add  their  graceful  benediction  to  a  life 
full  of  blessings  and  already  crowned  with  peace. 

In  the  year  1867  I  met  Dr.  William  H.  Doane  under 
very  interesting  circumstances.  He  had  come  from 
his  home  in  Cincinnati  to  New  York  to  visit  his  friend 
Dr.  Van  Meter  of  the  Five  Points  Mission;  and  they 
were  looking  for  a  hymn  that  might  be  used  on  a  certain 
anniversary.  A  number  of  standard  hymns  were  given 
to  Mr.  Doane,  but  he  did  not  find  them  appropriate. 
About  this  time  I  had  been  writing  "More  Like  Jesus"; 
and  Dr.  Lowry  asked  me  why  I  did  not  send  it  to  Mr. 
Doane.  I  said,  "Well,  I  will"  and  accordingly  sent  it 
by  a  messenger  boy.  The  latter  handed  my  words  to 
Mr.  Doane,  who  happened  to  be  at  the  moment  talking 
with  Dr.  Van  Meter;  and  he  laid  them  down  for  a  few 


124  MEMORIES   OF   EIGHTY    YEARS 

minutes.  When  he  took  up  the  letter  and  glanced  over 
its  contents  he  started  after  the  boy,  but  could  not  find 
him.  He  returned  to  Dr.  Van  Meter  disheartened,  but 
determined  to  find  me  if  I  was  anywhere  to  be  found  in 
the  city.  He  again  went  out  and  hunted  for  me  the 
rest  of  the  day;  and  it  was  not  until  about  eight  or  nine 
in  the  evening  that  he  was  finally  directed  to  my  board- 
ing place.  I  went  to  the  door,  and  he  asked,  "Are  you 
Fanny  Crosby  ?"  On  being  informed  I  was  that  person 
he  said, 

"Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  find  you;  I  have  been  trying 
to  do  so  a  long  while,  and  at  last  I  have  succeeded.,, 
At  the  close  of  our  interview  he  said, 

"I  must  pay  you  for  the  hymn  that  you  sent  and 
which  I  was  more  than  glad  to  receive."  He  put  into 
my  hand  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  two-dollar  bill,  and 
then  bade  me  good  night.  It  struck  me  that  I  ought 
to  ask  him  how  much  he  had  given  me;  that  there  might 
be  no  mistake  about  it.  He  came  back;  I  showed  him 
the  bill,  which  proved  to  be  twenty  dollars.  Of  course, 
I  declined  to  take  that  amount ;  but  he  said  that  the  Lord 
had  sent  that  hymn,  and  therefore  meant  that  I  should 
have  the  twenty  dollars  for  it.  The  following  evening 
he  renewed  his  visit  and  gave  me  the  subject  "Pass  Me 
Not,  O  Gentle  Saviour." 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Van  Meter  had  called  on  Mr.  Doane, 
and  finding  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  compose  a 
melody  for  the  anniversary  at  the  mission,  said 

"Here  is  another  piece;  I  will  come  tomorrow  and 
shall  expect  the  music  to  be  written."    Mr.  Doane  took 


THE   LIFE   OF  A   HYMN-V TtlTER  125 

up  my  hymn  "More  Like  Jesus"  and  the  melody  came 
to  him  at  once.  According  to  promise  his  friend  came 
again  next  day  and  said,  "Is  the  piece  ready?"  Mr. 
Doane  said, 

"Not  the  music  to  the  words  you  gave  yesterday, 
but  I  have  something  else;  and  if  we  can  find  an  organ 
I  will  play  it  for  you."  They  went  into  a  neighboring 
church,  and  Dr.  Van  Meter  agreed  to  pump  the  organ 
while  Mr.  Doane  played  and  sang  the  hymn.  But  they 
had  not  gone  very  far  before  Dr.  Van  Meter  burst  into 
tears  and  forgot  to  pump  the  organ.  They  tried  again, 
and  this  time  the  good  doctor  came  out  from  behind 
the  organ,  threw  his  arms  around  Mr.  Doane's  neck 
and  cried, 

"Doane,  where  did  you  get  that?"  Then  Mr. 
Doane  told  him  that  Fanny  Crosby  had  sent  him  the 
words  and  he  had  just  written  the  music.  The  hymn 
was  used  at  the  anniversary  and  was  a  perfect  success. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
TWO  GREAT  EVANGELISTS 

IN  the  thought  of  Christian  people  everywhere 
throughout  the  world  the  names,  Moody  and 
Sankey,  are  linked  together;  and  I  have  been 
not  a  little  honored  in  having  these  great 
evangelists  among  my  dearest  friends.  I  have  always 
been  greatly  fascinated  when  Mr.  Sankey  has  related 
in  my  hearing  the  story  of  how  he  and  Mr.  Moody 
first  met;  and  he  has  told  it  with  wonderful  vividness 
and  power  in  his  "Story  of  the  Gospel  Hymns."  In 
1870  Mr.  Sankey  was  one  of  the  delegates  to  the  con- 
vention of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association  at 
Indianapolis;  and  one  morning,  with  a  friend,  went 
into  a  seven  o'clock  meeting  conducted  by  Mr.  Moody. 
The  singing  was  abominable  and  the  friend  suggested 
that  Mr.  Sankey  start  something;  and  he  sang  "There  is 
a  Fountain  Filled  with  Blood."  The  congregation 
joined  and  the  remainder  of  the  meeting  was  bright 
and  hearty. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  they  met,  and  almost 
Mr.  Moody's  first  words  were  "I  have  been  looking 
for  you  for  the  last  eight  years.  You  must  come  to 
Chicago  and  help  me  in  my  evangelistic  meetings." 
This  announcement  was  rather  sudden;  and  Mr.  Sankey 
replied  that  he  did  not  feel  called  to  give  up  his  business, 
but  promised  to  think  the  matter  over,  The  next  day 
126 


FANNY    (  ROSBY    AND    MR.   SANKEY    AT    WORK    FITTING 
WORDS   AND   MUSIC. 


-? 


TWO   GREAT  EVANGELISTS  127 


Mr.  Moody  asked  him  to  be  at  a  certain  street  corner 
that  evening.  He  arrived  before  the  evangelist;  the 
latter  soon  came;  and  without  even  greeting  Mr.  Sankey 
passed  into  a  store  and  asked  for  a  box  upon  which  he 
might  stand  and  speak  to  the  men  returning  home  from 
work.  A  large  company  collected ;  they  at  last  adjourned 
to  the  Opera  House,  where  the  convention  was  being 
held;  and  continued  the  meeting  till  the  hour  of  the 
evening  service.  For  the  next  six  months  Mr.  Moody 
urged  Mr.  Sankey  to  give  up  his  business  and  go  to 
Chicago;  finally  he  was  promised  that  they  would  hold 
a  few  meetings  together;  and  before  the  end  of  the  first 
week  Mr.  Sankey  sent  his  resignation  to  his  firm.  Thus 
early  in  1871  they  began  work.  Wherever  Moody  and 
Sankey  went  there  was  a  great  awakening,  and  in  England 
especially  thousands  turned  toward  the  Christian  life 
from  a  career  of  indifference  and  sin.  Mr.  Sankey  was 
in  the  habit  of  using  some  of  the  songs  which  had  proved 
their  merit  in  Chicago  and  other  cities  of  America,  but 
the  demand  for  gospel  hymns  rose  to  such  a  degree  that 
a  collection  of  them  was  printed,  and  the  little  book  was 
called  "Sacred  Songs  and  Solos."  The  sales  were  con- 
stantly increased  until  many  thousands  were  sold.  The 
profit  from  the  publication  was  given  to  charitable 
purposes. 

WTien  they  returned  to  this  country  a  new  book  was 
compiled  with  the  assistance  of  P.  P.  Bliss  and  Major 
D.  W.  WTiittle.  It  was  entitled  "  Gospel  Hymns  and 
Sacred  Songs"  and  was  issued  by  the  Biglow  and  Main 
Company.     Since    that   date   five   additional   numbers 


128  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

have  been  compiled  and  over  fifty  million  copies  in  all 
have  been  sold,  the  royalty  being  devoted  to  worthy 
causes,  and  of  late  years  to  the  Northfield  Seminary  and 
the  Boys'  School  at  Mount  He  mon,  Massachusetts. 
Recent  editions  have  been  compiled  by  George  C.  Steb- 
bins  and  James  McGranahan,  both  of  "whom  have  been 
friends  of  mine  for  many  years. 

I  presume  "The  Ninety  and  Nine"  is  the  most 
popular  of  all  the  Moody  and  Sankey  hymns.  The 
story  of  the  writing  of  this  hymn  has  been  told  to  me 
more  than  once  by  Mr.  Sankey.  They  had  been  travel- 
ling through  England  and  Scotland,  holding  very  large 
meetings,  and  finally  were  going  from  Glasgow  to  Edin- 
burgh. At  the  railway  station  Mr.  Sankey  purchased 
a  paper  with  the  hope  of  finding  some  news  from  America. 
He  found  none,  however,  but  at  last  caught  sight  of 
a  little  poem  in  one  corner  of  the  paper  anong  the  adver- 
tisements. He  liked  it  very  much,  called  Mr.  Moody's 
attention  to  it;  and  read  it  again  at  his  friend's  request. 
But  Mr.  Moody  was  not  impressed.  Two  days  later 
the  topic  at  a  noon  meeting  was  "The  Good  Shepherd"; 
and  Dr.  Bonar  was  one  of  the  speakers.  When  he  had 
concluded  his  address  Mr.  Moody  asked  if  Mr.  Sankey 
had  some  solo  appropriate  to  this  subject.  He  had 
nothing  in  mind;  and  was  greatly  perplexed  as  to  what 
to  do;  then  a  voice  seemed  to  say,  "Sing  the  hymn  you 
found  on  the  train"  He  immediately  sat  down  at  the 
organ;  bowed  his  head  in  prayer;  and  at  once  the  music 
to  "The  Ninety  and  Nine "  came  as  it  now  stands.  The 
great  audience  was  deeply  touched. 


TWO   GREAT  EVANGELISTS  129 

Several  interesting  stories  have  grown  out  of  the 
singing  of  "The  Ninety  and  Nine"  on  special  occasions. 
Many  years  ago  there  lived  at  Northfield  an  infidel ;  and 
one  day,  while  all  the  neighbors  had  gone  to  the  meeting 
at  the  church,  he  sat  at  home  alone  feeling  dissatisfied 
with  himself  and  all  the  world  in  general.  But  he  heard 
Mr.  Sankey  singing  "The  Ninety  and  Nine";  and  there 
was  something  in  the  hymn  that  he  could  not  escape. 
The  melody  rang  in  his  ears,  and  the  thought  of  the  lost 
sheep  troubled  him  that  night,  and  the  next,  and  the 
following  day  until  the  evening,  when  he  could  stand  it 
no  longer.  He  went  to  the  meeting  and  returned  a  saved 
man. 

A  few  years  later  he  was  taken  ill.  One  day  he  said 
to  his  wife, 

"Raise  the  window;  I  hear  'The  Ninety  and  Nine.'" 
Then  he  listened  attentively  until  the  last  notes  of  the 
hymn  had  died  out ;  and  turning  from  the  window  he  said, 
"I  am  dying;  but  it  is  all  right,  for  I  am  ready.  I 
shall  never  hear  'The  Ninety  and  Nine'  again  on  earth, 
but  I  am  glad  that  I  have  heard  it  once  more  today." 

My  own  recollections  of  Northfield  bring  back  many 
incidents  concerning  those  whom  it  was  my  fortune  to 
meet  there.  During  the  summer  of  1894  the  auditorium 
meetings  were  in  charge  of  Dr.  A.  J.  Gordon,  while 
Mr.  Moody  was  holding  a  series  of  evangelistic  services 
in  England.  One  evening  Mr.  Sankey  came  to  me  and 
said, 

"Will  you  say  something  ?  there  is  a  request  from  the 


ISO  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

audience  that  you  speak."    I  felt  that  I  was  not  prepared 
for  the  occasion  and  so  I  said, 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sankey,  I  cannot  speak  before  such  an 
array  of  talent."  Dr.  Pierson  supplemented  Mr.  Sankey 's 
request  by  saying, 

"Yes,  you  can.  There  is  no  one  here  of  whom  you 
need  be  afraid."    Then  Dr.  Gordon  said, 

"Fanny,  do  you  speak  to  please  man  or  to  please 
God?" 

"Why,  I  hope  to  please  God,"  I  replied.  ''Well, 
then,"  he  said,  "go  out  and  do  your  duty." 

During  my  remarks  that  evening  I  repeated  for  the 
first  time  in  public  the  words  to  "Saved  by  Grace," 
although  the  hymn  had  been  written  more  than  two 
years  before  that  summer,  but  it  had  never  been  pub- 
lished or  used  in  any  way. 

"Where  have  you  kept  that  piece?"  asked  Mr. 
Sankey,  when  I  returned  to  my  seat.  I  told  him  that 
I  had  kept  it  stored  away  for  an  emergency.  There 
was  a  reporter  present  that  evening ;  he  copied  the  hymn 
as  I  gave  it;  and  a  few  weeks  later  it  appeared  in  an 
English  religious  paper.  At  the  lequest  of  Mr.  Sankey, 
my  friend,  George  C.  Stebbins,  composed  the  music  to 
"Saved  by  Grace"  and  thus  the  hymn  was  sent  forth 
on  its  mission  to  the  world. 

So  strong  was  the  friendship  existing  between  Mr. 
Moody  and  Mr.  Sankey  that  we  used  to  call  them  "  David 
and  Jonathan";  and  I  am  sure  that  the  modern  church 
has  not  known  two  men  more  devoted  to  the  work  of 
Christian  evangelism;  and  so  they  went  far  and  near, 


TWO    GREAT   EVANGELISTS  131 


telling  the  old,  old  story  in  sermon  and  in  gospel  song, 
until  the  influence  of  their  meetings  spread  through  all 
classes  of  society. 

My  last  personal  message  from  Mr.  Moody  was 
received  shortly  before  his  death  while  I  was  conducting 
a  series  of  meetings  in  Oneonta,  New  York.  A  friend 
of  mine  was  leaving  for  Northfield ;  and  at  my  request  he 
carried  a  message  of  greeting  to  Mr.  Moody;  and  when 
the  latter  heard  it,  he  exclaimed,  "Oh,  Fanny  Crosby, 
give  her  my  love."  I  little  thought  then  that  before 
many  months  the  sender  of  those  kind  words  would  sleep 
on  the  summit  of  old  Round  Top,  where  we  had  gathered 
many  beautiful  summer  evenings  to  hear  his  words  of 
comfort  and  of  inspiration. 

Dwight  Lyman  Moody  was  a  wonderful  man;  and 
he  did  his  own  work  in  a  unique  way,  which  was  some- 
times no  less  daring  than  original.  The  following 
passage  from  the  Holy  Eook  is  in  my  mind  as  I  think 
of  his  blameless  life: 

"Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord  from 
henceforth.  Yea,  saith  the  Spirit,  that  they  may  rest 
from  their  labors,  and  their  works  do  follow  them." 

It  is  a  blessed  joy  that  his  companion,  Mr.  Sankey, 
has  been  spared  to  the  present  hour;  and  that  during 
the  last  twenty -five  years  he  has  been  a  close  associate 
of  mine  in  writing  gospel  hymns.  His  work  as  a  com- 
poser and  as  a  singer  is  known  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  Christian  world;  for  the  sorrowing 
and  unfortunate  of  both  America  and  Great  Britain 
he  has  done  an  amount  of  good  that  eternity  alone  will 


> 


132  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

be  able  to  estimate;  and  his  own  sweet  melodies  have 
indeed  been  a  balm  to  many  an  aching  heart. 

The  friendship  of  this  talented  man  is  one  of  my 
priceless  jewels.  During  a  recent  illness  I  told  him 
that  I  believed  the  entire  Christian  world  was  praying 
for  his  recovery.  He  said,  "Tell  those  who  love  me  and 
are  praying  for  me  that  I  am  holding  on  to  Christ  and 
Christ  is  holding  on  to  me;  and  that  by  and  by  I'll  see 
Him  face  to  face  and  tell  the  story  ' Saved  by  Grace.'" 

Recently  while  visiting  at  Mr.  Sankey's  home,  I 
heard  him  calling  from  his  room  upstairs,  "Fanny 
Crosby  is  in  this  house;  I  hear  her  laugh."  Then  I 
went  to  his  room;  we  conversed  pleasantly  for  a  long 
time ;  and  the  next  day  when  I  was  leaving  his  home  he 
handed  me  the  following  hymn,  saying  "You  may  have 
this  for  your  book."  The  words  were  written  by  Sarah 
Dondney,  and  set  to  music  composed  by  himself. 

"Sleep  on,  beloved,  sleep,  and  take  thy  rest; 
Lay  down  thy  head  upon  thy  Saviour's  breast; 
We  loved  thee  well,  but  Jesus  loves  thee  best — 
Good-night!  Good-night! 

"Calm  is  thy  slumber  as  an  infant's  sleep; 
But  thou  shall  wake  no  more  to  toil  and  weep: 
This  is  a  perfect  rest,  secure,  and  deep — 
Good-night!  Good-night! 

"Until  the  shadows  trom  this  earth  are  cast; 
Until  He  gathers  in  His  sheaves  at  last; 
Until  the  twilight  gloom  be  overpast — 
Good-night.'    Good-nightj 


TWO  GREAT  EVANGELISTS  133 

"Until  the  Easter  glory  lights  the  skies; 
Until  the  dead  in  Jesus  shall  arise, 
And  He  shall  come,  but  not  in  lowly  guise — 
Good-night  I    Good-night ! 

"Until  made  beautiful  by  Love  Divine, 
Thou  in  the  likeness  of  thy  Lord  shalt  shine, 
And  He  shall  bring  that  golden  crown  of  thine — 
Good-night !    Good-night ! 

"Only  'Good-night,'  beloved— not  'farewell!' 
A  little  while,  and  all  His  saints  shall  dwell 
In  hallowed  union  indivisible — 
Good-night!    Good-night! 

"Until  we  meet  again  before  His  throne, 
Clothed  in  the  spotless  robe  He  gives  His  own, 
Until  we  know  even  as  we  are  known — 
Good-night !    Good-night !" 

Then  he  gave  me  a  message  for  the  same  purpose. 

"I  wish  you  to  convey  to  all  my  friends,"  said  Mr. 
Sankey,  "the  assurance  of  my  love;  and  that  I  hope  to 
meet  them  all  by-and-by  in  the  land  where  there  is  no 
more  sorrow  nor  pain,  and  where  God  shall  wipe  away 
all  tears  from  our  eyes.  Tell  them  that  God  is  Love  and 
that  I  have  ordered  those  words  to  be  cut  on  my  tomb- 
stone in  Greenwood,  that  future  generations  may  know 
the  faith  in  which  I  died." 

Later  he  wrote: 


1S4  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Dear  Fanny,  co-laborer  in  the  blessed  service  of 
Sacred  Song  for  so  many  years: 

"I  wish  that  when  you  get  to  heaven  (as  you  may 
before  I  will)  that  you  will  watch  for  me  at  the  pearly 
gate  at  the  eastern  side  of  the  city ;  and  when  I  get  there 
I'll  take  you  by  the  hand  and  lead  you  along  the  golden 
street,  up  to  the  throne  of  God,  and  there  we'll  stand 
before  the  Lamb,  and  say  to  Him:  And  now  we  see 
Thee  face  to  face,  saved  by  Thy  matchless,  boundless 
grace,  and  we  are  satisfied.' 

"Yours,  till  the  day  dawn  and  the  shadows  flee  away, 

"Ira  D,  Sankey."   . 


A 


CHAPTER    XVII 

OTHER  LITERARY  AND   MUSICAL 
FRIENDSHIPS 

IN  general  I  have  been  always  willing  to  agree 
with  authors  as  to  the  merits  of  their  own 
poems.  That  often  is  the  safer  plan,  and 
in  the  end  may  save  a  vast  deal  of  ill  feeling. 
One  funny  instance  comes  to  mind  now.  Fifty  or  more 
years  ago  I  knew  a  man  who  thought  he  had  a  genius 
for  poetry;  and  when  I  was  calling  at  his  house  he  recited 
one  of  his  own  productions,  of  which  I  recall  only 
this  stanza: 

"I  am  what  is  called  a  sinner 
By  those  who  think  they  are  right ; 
But  then  I  hope  to  go  where 
The  blind  receive  their  sight.' ' 

I  said,  "Why,  Mr.  Brown,  did  you  write  that?"  en- 
deavoring to  look  as  demure  as  possible.  He  seemed 
to  be  much  flattered,  and  said,  "I  have  been  thinking 
that  you  and  I  could  write  a  book  together."  Sum- 
moning all  the  gravity  I  could,  I  exclaimed,  "Wouldn't 
that  be  splendid!"  The  book,  however,  was  never 
written. 

An  irregular  line  frequently  makes  a  poem  unsuited 
to  music.  In  my  work  I  have  seldom  undertaken  even 
the  slightest  revision  in  the  poems  of  others,  without 

136 


136  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

being  perfectly  sure  that  it  was  wished.  Once,  when  I 
departed  from  this  rule,  to  gratify  the  wish  of  the  editor 
of  a  certain  New  York  magazine,  I  repented  at  leisure. 
Someone  had  sent  in  a  piece  entitled  "Charlie  and  I"; 
I  revised  it ;  and  a  few  days  after  the  magazine  was  pub- 
lished the  author  came  down  to  interview  me.  Not 
until  some  time  later  did  she  become  fully  reconciled 
and  then  only  through  the  friendly  offices  of  my  colleague, 
the  late  Mrs.  Mary  A.  Kidder.  Then  we  became  firm 
friends ;  but  the  lesson  taught  me  by  such  an  unpleasant 
incident  has  saved  me  from  like  repetitions. 

Miss  Josephine  Pollard  and  Mrs.  Kidder  also  wrote 
many  hymns  for  Mr.  Bradbury,  and  his  successors, 
the  Biglow  and  Main  Company;  and  the  three  of  us 
worked  together  so  well  that  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
calling  us  "the  trio." 

Philip  P.  Bliss  was  introduced  to  me  in  1874.  His 
talent  for  music  was  inherited,  though  his  early  advan- 
tages were  few.  When  he  was  ten  years  of  age  he  heard 
a  piano  for  the  first  time;  and,  becoming  enraptured 
by  the  music,  he  sought  the  source  of  it  which  proved 
to  be  the  parlor  of  an  entire  stranger.  But  the  boy  was 
so  enchanted  that  he  did  not  think  of  that;  and  so  entered; 
and  there  found  a  young  lady  seated  at  the  piano,  but 
she  ordered  him  out.  This  same  boy,  however,  mostly 
through  his  own  efforts,  had  become  so  proficient  in 
music,  after  a  very  few  years  that  he  was  asked  to  lead 
large  chorus  classes. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Bliss  at  the  beginning  of  what 
seemed  a  career  of  great  promise  cast  a  cloud  over  the 


LITERARY  AND   MUSICAL  FRIENDSHIPS      137 

spirits  of  all  his  friends.  The  night  before  that  terrible 
railroad  accident  at  Ashtabula,  Ohio,  in  which  he  lost 
his  life  in  a  vain  attempt  to  save  that  of  his  beloved 
wife,  he  said  to  his  audience,  "I  may  not  pass  this  way 
again";  then  he  sang  a  solo,  "I'm  Going  Home  To- 
morrow." This  indeed  proved  prophetic  of  his  own 
home  going. 

His  celebrated  hymn  "Hold  the  Fort"  was  born  one 
day  in  the  summer  of  1870,  while  he  and  Major  Whittle 
were  attending  a  meeting  at  Rockford,  Illinois;  and  it 
was  first  used  at  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association 
in  Chicago.  Mr.  Bliss  was  inspired  to  write  his  hymn 
by  a  story  told  by  Major  Whittle.  My  last  meeting 
with  the  latter  seems  but  yesterday.  He  was  suffering 
much  pain,  and  I  said,  "Oh,  major,  I  wish  I  could 
give  you  a  part  of  my  good  h  alth  this  morning."  The 
dear,  patient  man  replied,  "It  is  all  right.  The  Lord 
knows  best;  and  all  will  result  in  my  good."  Then  he 
spoke  pleasantly  of  some  favorite  hymns,  and  added 
with  a  smile,  "All  sorrow  will  fade  away,  and  all  pain 
depart  as  the  dew  before  the  morning  sun." 

There  are  many  other  musical  men  whom  I  have 
had  the  honor  of  knowing  and  whom  I  number  among 
my  dearest  acquaintances.  I  met  Hart  P.  Danks  and 
William  F.  Sherwin  about  the  same  year;  D  .  Horatio 
R.  Palmer  has  entertained  us  many  an  afternoon  with 
his  delightful  reminiscences  of  the  Holy  Land;  and 
Mr.  George  C.  Stebbins,  who  has  written  the  music  to 
"Saved  by  Grace,"   "Eye  Hath  Not  Seen,"  "Come 


138  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Unto  Me,  Ye  Weary,"  "In  Perfect  Peace,"  and  other 
famous  hymns,  is  another  of  my  priceless  friends. 

Some  of  those  who  have  already  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  river  are  Victor  H.  Benke,  William  B.  Brad- 
bury, Philip  P.  Bliss,  George  F.  Bristow,  Henry  Brown, 
Hart  P.  Danks,  Mary  A.  Kidder,  Robert  Lowry,  Sylves- 
ter Main,  Philip  Phillips,  Josephine  Pollard,  Kenry 
Tucker,  Theodore  F.  Seward,  William  F.  Sherv.in, 
John  R.  Sweney,  Silas  J.  Vail,  and  Mrs.  Clark  Wilson; 
a  few  of  the  musical  associates  who  are  still  spared  are 
James  M.  Black,  John  R.  Clements,  Mrs.  Mary  Upham 
Currier,  William  H.  Doane,  Caryl  Florio,  Charles  H. 
Gabriel,  Adam  Geibel,  Mrs.  Harriet  E.  Jones,  Miss  Eliza 
E.  Hewitt,  William  J.  Kirkpatrick,  Mrs.  Joseph  F. 
Knapp,  Hubert  P.  Main,  James  McGranahan,  H.  R. 
Palmer,  Theodore  E.  Perkins,  W.  A.  Post,  Ira  D.  Sankey, 
I.  Allan  Sankey,  Mrs.  Lanta  Wilson  Smith,  George  C. 
Stebbins,  B.  C.  Unseld,  J.  W.  Vandeventer,  W.  S. 
Weeden,  Clark  Wilson,  Mrs.  Agnes  Woolston  and 
David  D.   Wood. 

I  have  visited  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  at  his  home  in  Phila- 
delphia several  times ;  and  I  look  back  upon  these  occa- 
sions with  peculiar  pleasure.  To  some  of  the  melodies 
that  he  has  sent  I  have  written  words  that  have  been 
largely  used  for  many  years  in  gospel  services  every- 
where. A  few  of  the  titles  that  come  to  mind  now  are 
"He  Hideth  My  Soul,"  "He  Came  to  Save  Me,"  "Re- 
deemed," "Welcome  for  Me,"  "Meet  Me  There,"  and 
#i  Like  a  Bird  on  the  Deep  " ;  and  my  readers  will  instantly 
recall  many  others,  equally  popular. 


LITERARY  AND  MUSICAL  FRIENDSHIPS       ISO 

Miss  Eliza  E.  Hewitt,  who  has  written  many  beauti- 
ful hymns  and  poems  for  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  and  other 
composers,  several  years  ago  called  on  me  while  I  was 
in  Philadelphia;  and  her  visit  was  indeed  a  gracious 
benediction.  At  Assembly  Park,  New  York,  recently 
we  renewed  the  friendship  then  so  favorably  begun; 
and  there  we  spent  many  delightful  hours  in  conversation 
about  subjects  dear  to  both  of  us.  Miss  Hewitts  hymn, 
entitled  "Will  There  Be  Any  Stars  in  My  Crown?"  is 
a  great  favorite  of  mine.  Mrs.  Harriet  E.  Jones, 
also  the  author  of  hundreds  of  inspiring  gospel  songs, 
though  I  have  met  her  but  once,  has  proved  a  loving 
friend  in  her  cheering  letters  for  several  years. 

How  can  I  fittingly  describe  my  impressions  of  Ocean 
Grove?  The  first  evening  that  I  was  there  was  clear 
and  calm ;  and  as  we  silently  rowed  across  Wesley  Lake 
some  music  from  the  camp-grounds  was  wafted  to  us 
with  a  delightful  cadence.  Among  the  lasting  friendships 
formed  at  Ocean  Grove  were  those  of  John  R.  Sweney 
and  William  J.  Kirkpatrick. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  Ocean  Grove  in  1877  I 
was  met  by  a  man,  whom  I  had  known  in  the  old  Norfolk 
Street  Church  in  New  York.  Twelve  months  before  I 
had  seen  him  under  totally  different  circumstances,  so 
different  in  fact  that  his  story  should  be  of  some  interest. 
Then  he  was  disheartened;  now  he  was  thrilled  with 
Christian  hope;  and  we  were  indeed  surprised  by  the 
complete  transformation.  On  the  evening  of  our  previous 
meeting  he  arose  and  said, 

u Friends,  I  know  I  have  done  wrong;  and  many 


140  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

times  I  have  asked  your  prayers.  But  tonight  I  must 
have  your  help." 

His  manner  impressed  me  exceedingly,  and  I  gave 
him  some  words  of  cheer;  but  the  majority  of  our  mem- 
be  s  had  little  faith  in  his  leformation,  because  he  had 
tried  so  many  times  and  failed.  His  greeting  to  me  at 
Ocean  Grove  was  as  follows : 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  words  in  my 
behalf  at  the  Norfolk  Street  Church."  Some  of  the 
most  gratifying  memories  of  my  life  centre  about  testi- 
monies of  those  whom  I  have  been  enabled  to  help  by 
words  of  cheer  towards  better  things  than  those  of  this 
world. 

Dr.  StoKes,  who  conducted  the  meetings  at  Ocean 
Grove,  was  a  sweet,  spiritual  man;  and  he  wrote  several 
inspiring  hymns,  including,  "Holy  Spirit,  Fill  Me  Now," 
by  which  many  an  audience  has  been  moved  to  tears  as 
Mr.  Sweney  sang  it  as  a  solo.  It  was  one  of  the  saddest 
duties  of  my  life  to  recite  a  tribute  to  his  memory  at 
a  public  reception  given  to  Mr.  Sweney. 

The  work  of  the  Christian  missionary  has  always 
had  a  fascination  for  me  that  all  other  callings  have 
lacked;  and,  consequently,  it  was  a  rare  privilege  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  the  saintly  Bishop  William  Taylor  and  hear 
him  tell  of  the  tribes  which  live  where  "Afric's  sunny 
fountains  pour  down  their  golden  sand,"  as  Bishop 
Heber  has  said  in  his  great  missionary  hymn.  The 
good  bishop  Taylor  bore  the  heat  of  the  day  until  his 
locks  were  snowy  and  his  strength  ebbing  fast.  On  one 
occasion  when  he  was  starting  for  Africa  he  said  to  me, 


LITERARY  AND   MUSICAL  FRIENDSHIPS      141 

"Fanny,  if  you  were  thirty  years  younger  would  you 
go  with  me  to  Africa?" 

"Yes  indeed,  I  would,"  I  answered,  "and  help  you 
plant  missions."  I  saw  him  again  a  few  weeks  before 
his  last  missionary  journey  and  he  said, 

"Well,  Fanny,  I  am  going  once  more." 

"Many  times  yet,"  said  I,  "if  it  be  our  Father's 
will."  Laying  his  hand  upon  my  head  he  gave  me  his 
blessing ;  and  as  he  stood  there  a  vision  of  the  multitudes 
to  whom  his  ministry  hcd  been  a  benediction  came 
before  my  eyes  with  a  strange  power  and  pathos.  My 
prayer  is:  May  the  hour  come  when  we  will  no  longer 
say  of  the  foreign  field,  "Lo,  the  harvest  is  ripe,  but 
where  are  the  reapers?" 

The  unique  illustrations  given  by  Dr.  Talmage 
always  interested  me,  one  of  them  in  particular.  In 
a  Christmas  sermon  he  told  the  story  of  a  little  Swiss 
girl  who  was  dying;  and  from  her  window  she  could 
look  out  to  the  lofty  summit  of  the  mountains  amid 
which  she  had  been  reared. 

"Papa,  carry  me  to  the  tcp  of  the  mountain,"  she 
exclaimed.     But  he  replied, 

"My  child,  I  cannot  carry  you,  but  the  angels  will." 
For  a  time  she  was  silent  and  lay  with  her  eyes  closed. 
At  length  she  opened  them  and  looking  out  of  the  window 
exclaimed  in  her  joy, 

"They  are  carrying  me,  father.  I  shall  soon  be 
at  the  top." 

With  those  words  Dr.  Talmage  concluded  his 
sermon.     It  seemed  to  his  hearers  that  he  had  conducted 


142  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

them  to  a  high  pinnacle  in  a  lofty  range  of  mountains 
where  they  might  breath  a  pure  atmosphere.  When  I 
reminded  him  of  the  beautiful  effect  that  his  words  had 
upon  us,  he  said, 

"  Ah,  you  are  right.  I  never  intended  to  bring  you 
down  from  that  summit." 

And  thus  it  is  with  even  the  humblest  fellow-ministers 
of  song;  they  take  us  to  heights  of  which  the  soul  often 
dreams,  yet  rarely  attains,  in  fact  to  those  mansions  of 
the  blest  where  there  are  always  light  and  warmth  and 
love;  where  the  thirst  of  weary  pilgrims  is  quenched  by 
draughts  of  mountain  springs;  and  where  this  mortal 
spirit  puts  on  its  immortality. 

"Sing  on,  ye  joyful  pilgrims, 
The  way  will  not  be  long, 
My  faith  is  heavenward  rising 
With  every  tuneful  song." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
WORK  AMONG  MISSIONS 

MY  connection  with  the  Bowery  Mission 
dates  from  1881.  Mr.  Childs,  then  its 
superintendent,  I  first  knew  as  a  dis- 
couraged man  out  of  work,  but  always 
found  him  a  true  Christian  gentleman.  He  had  been 
compelled  to  give  up  an  excellent  position  in  Massa- 
chusetts because  of  failing  eyesight;  and  consequently 
had  come  to  New  York  to  find  something  to  do. 
We  first  met  on  a  street  car;  and  I  asked  him  if  he 
was  familiar  with  the  Bowery  Mission.  He  said  that  he 
was,  and  the  next  evening  we  went  down  there  to- 
gether, and  I  introduced  him  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Rulifson, 
the  superintendent,  with  the  result  that  he  was  at  once 
engaged  as  assistant  in  the  work  of  rescuing  lost  men. 
I  frequently  attended  the  evening  meetings  at  the 
mission ;  and  one  evening  they  asked  me  to  speak,  as 
indeed  they  often  did.     During  my  remarks  I  said, 

"If  there  is  a  man  present,  who  has  gone  just  as  far 
as  he  can  go,  he  is  the  person  with  whom  I  want  to  shake 
hands."     Mr.   Childs  whispered, 

"The  man  for  whom  you  are  looking  sits  directly  in 
front  of  the  platform." 

When  the  meeting  closed  I  was  introduced  to  this 
stranger;  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not  wish  to  come  out 
and  live  a  Christian  life. 

143 


144  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  "what  difference?  I  have  no 
friends ;  nobody  cares  for  me." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  I  said,  "for  the  Lord  Jesus 
cares  for  you;  and  others  care  for  you  too.  Unless  I 
had  a  deep  interest  in  your  soul's  welfare  I  certainly 
would  not  be  here  talking  with  you  on  this  subject." 
Then,  I  gave  him  several  passages  of  Scripture,  for  he 
seemed  moved  to  consider  the  matter  carefully.  At 
last  he  said, 

"If  I  come  here  to  the  meeting  tomorrow  evening 
and  sign  the  pledge,  will  you  come  with  me?"  To 
which  question  I  replied, 

"Yes,  I  will  be  here  again;  and,  although  I  do  not 
discourage  you  from  signing  the  pledge,  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  best  pledge  you  can  give  is  to  yield  yourself  to 
God.  Will  you  do  it?"  The  next  evening  he  was 
present;  and  before  the  close  of  the  meeting  we  saw  the 
new  light  in  his  eyes  and  felt  the  change  in  his  voice. 

Kindness  in  this  world  will  do  much  to  help  others, 
not  only  to  come  into  the  light,  but  to  grow  in  grace  day 
by  day.  There  are  many  timid  souls  whom  we  jostle 
morning  and  evening  as  we  pass  them  by;  but  if  only 
the  kind  word  were  spoken  they  might  become  fully 
persuaded.  For  all  mission  workers  everywhere  I 
always  have  had  tender  sympathies.     God  bless  them! 

Not  a  few  of  my  hymns  have  been  written  after 
experiences  at  the  New  York  missions.  One  in  particular 
has  been  used  far  and  wide  in  evangelistic  work.  As  I 
was  addressing  a  large  company  of  working  men  one 
hot  August  evening,  the  thought  kept  forcing  itself  upon 


WORK  AMONG  MISSIONS  145 

my  mind  that  some  mother's  boy  must  be  rescued  that 
very  night  or  perhaps  not  at  all.  So  I  requested  that, 
if  there  was  any  boy  present,  who  had  wandered  away 
from  mother's  teaching,  he  would  come  to  the  platform 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  service.  A  young  man  of  eighteen 
came  forward  and  said, 

"Did  you  mean  me?  I  have  promised  my  mother 
to  meet  her  in  heaven;  but  as  I  am  now  living  that  will 
be  impossible."  We  prayed  for  him;  he  finally  arose 
with  a  new  light  in  his  eyes ;  and  exclaimed  triumphantly, 

"Now,  I  can  meet  mother  in  heaven;  for  I  have 
found  her  God." 

A  few  days  before,  Mr.  Doane  had  sent  me  the  subject 
"Rescue  the  Perishing,"  and  while  I  sat  there  that  even- 
ing the  line  came  to  me, 

"Rescue  the  perishing,  care  for  the  dying." 

I  could  think  of  nothing  else  that  night.  When  I  arrived 
at  my  home  I  went  to  work  on  it  at  once;  and  before  I 
retired  the  entire  hymn  was  ready  for  a  melody.  The 
next  day  my  words  were  written  and  forwarded  to  Mr. 
Doane,  who  wrote  the  beautiful  and  touching  music 
as  it  now  stands. 

In  November,  1903,  I  went  to  Lynn,  Massachusetts, 
to  speak  before  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association. 
I  told  them  the  incident  that  led  me  to  write  "Rescue 
the  Perishing,"  as  I  have  just  related  it.  After  the 
meeting  a  large  number  of  men  shook  hands  with  me, 
and  among  them  was  a  man,  who  seemed  to  be  deeply 
moved.     You  may  imagine  my  surprise  when  he  said, 


146  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Miss  Crosby,  I  was  the  boy,  who  told  you  more 
than  thirty-five  years  ago  that  I  had  wandered  from  my 
mother's  God.  The  evening  that  you  spoke  at  the 
mission  I  sought  and  found  peace,  and  I  have  tried  to 
live  a  consistent  Christian  life  ever  since.  If  we  never 
meet  again  on  earth,  we  will  meet  up  yonder."  As  he 
said  this,  he  raised  my  hand  to  his  lips ;  and  before  I  had 
recovered  from  my  surprise  he  had  gone;  and  remains 
to  this  day  a  nameless  friend,  who  touched  a  deep  chord 
of  sympathy  in  my  heart.  It  is  these  notes  of  sympathy 
that  vibrate  when  a  voice  calls  them  forth  from  the  dim 
memories  of  the  past,  and  the  music  is  celestial. 

One  evening  there  was  a  man  in  the  seat  in  front  of 
me,  and  from  his  singing  I  judged  that  he  was  under 
conviction  Something  within  prompted  me  to  ask  him 
if  he  would  remain  and  hear  the  sermon,  and  he  finally 
consented  to  do  so.  Just  before  the  close  of  the  address 
I  whispered, 

"When  the  invitation  is  given,  will  you  go  to  the 
altar?"    For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  and  then  asked, 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  I  did  go  to  the  altar  with 
him  and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  a  saved  man. 

I  could  give  more  than  one  instance  where  men  have 
been  reclaimed,  after  a  long  struggle  and  many  attempts 
at  reformation,  because  someone  spoke  a  kind  word  to 
them  even  at  what  appeared  to  be  the  last  moment. 
I  have  also  known  many  others  who  turned  away  from 
a  meeting  simply  because  the  cheering  word  had  not 
been  spoken,  nor  the  helping  hand  extended. 

Never  to  chide  the  erring  has  always  been  my  policy, 


WORK  AMONG  MISSIONS  H7 

for  I  firmly  believe  that  harsh  words  only  serve  to  harden 
hearts  that  might  otherwise  be  softened  into  repentance. 

"Speak  not  harshly  when  reproving 

Those  from  duty's  path  who  stray; 
If  you  would  reclaim  the  erring, 

Kindness  must  each  action  sway. 
Speak  not  harshly  to  the  wayward; 

Win  their  confidence,  their  love, 
They  will  feel  how  pure  the  motive 

That  has  led  them  to  reprove." 

The  anniversaries  at  the  Bowery  Mission  were  always 
notable  occasions  and  every  convert  made  a  special 
effort  to  be  present,  many  of  them  coming  from  quite 
a  distance.  I  was  present  and  made  a  short  address 
at  sixteen  of  these  gatherings ;  and  on  each  occasion  also 
wrote  a  hymn.  Victor  H.  Eenke,  for  so  many  years 
their  organist,  was  one  of  my  test  friends;  and  he  com- 
posed the  music  to  a  number  of  nyhynns.  Mrs.  Bird, 
"my  singing  bird,"  as  I  call  her,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Hallimond,  at  present  in  charge  of  the  Bowery  Mission, 
with  many  other  faithful  sculs,  have  carried  forward 
the  work  so  nobly  commenced  rrore  than  thirty  years  ago. 

Jerry  McAuley,  for  rrany  years,  v  as  cne  of  the  most 
widely  known  men  in  New  York.  It  was  in  his  own 
mission  in  Water  Street  that  I  first  rret  him;  but 
the  story  of  his  life,  how  he  had  been  a  thief,  a  drunkard 
and  a  thoroughly  desperate  man,  was  familiar  to  me, 
and  I  was  deeply  interested  in  him  because  of  the  work 
of   grace  wrought  at  his  conversion.     As  a  speaker  he 


148  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

used  simple  language,  but  his  manner  was  so  impressive 
that  all  men  were  drawn  toward  him.  He  and  his 
faithful  wife  toiled  and  planned  and  sacrificed  to  give 
the  old  Water  Street  Mission  a  start.  Not  long  after  my 
first  visit  with  them  they  were  instrumental  in  founding 
the  Cremorne  Mission  on  West  Thirty-second  Street; 
and  there  I  believe  I  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  E.  M. 
Whittemore,  the  founder  of  the  Door  of  Hope  for  un- 
protected girls. 

I  was  at  once  wonderfully  impressed  by  the  earnest- 
ness of  this  remarkable  lady;  and  I  lost  no  occasion  to 
inquire  concerning  her  work.  One  of  the  incidents  that 
she  related  was  regarding  a  visit  to  Boston.  She  was 
asked  to  speak  at  a  parlor  meeting,  and  was  obliged  to 
decline ;  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  of  the  gathering 
she  felt  prompted  to  make  an  extra  effort  to  attend. 
She  had  recently  received  a  letter  directed  to  "Mrs. 
Whittemore,  United  States  of  America ";  and  this  was 
found  to  have  been  written  by  a  poor  heart-broken 
father  in  Ireland  in  behalf  of  his  wandering  daughter 
whom  he  supposed  to  be  somewhere  in  America. 

With  the  subject  of  the  letter  still  en  her  mind,  Mrs. 
Whittemore  spoke  at  the  meeting  in  Eoston.  The  house 
proved  to  be  too  small  for  the  audience  that  collected; 
and  so  they  adjourned  to  a  neighboring  church.  While 
she  was  speaking  she  noticed  two  girls  standing  near 
the  door;  and  when  the  meeting  was  concluded  they 
were  introduced  to  her,  and  she  asked  a  few  questions 
as  to  their  circumstances.  Little  by  little,  it  dawned 
upon  her  that  one  of  them  was  the  girl  referred  to  in  the 


WORK  AMONG  MISSIONS  149 

letter  she  had  received  from  Ireland;  and  she  gave  her 
the  letter  her  father  had  written.  The  poor  unfortunate 
girl  nearly  fainted  when  she  recognized  the  handwriting; 
and  as  a  result  of  her  providential  meeting  with  Mrs. 
W  hittemore,  she  was  also  reconciled  to  the  young  man 
who  had  deserted  her.  For,  in  the  meanwhile,  he  too, 
had  been  converted  and  had  been  brought  to  the  notice 
of  Mrs.  Whittemore;  who  was  thus  enabled  to  be  the 
means  of  helping  them  to  a  happy  ending  of  their  romance 
and  they  returned  to  their  home  in  Ireland. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  know  both  of  the 
Hadley  brothers,  who  have  been  such  mighty  forces 
for  good  in  the  missions  of  New  York.  Col.  Henry 
Hadley  I  met  many  years  before  his  conversion,  which 
occurerd  at  the  Jerry  McAuley  Mission.  When  I  first 
knew  him  he  was  a  skeptic  and  was  in  many  ways  hostile 
to  the  Christian  cause,  although  he  was  always  very  kind 
to  everyone.  At  that  time  he  was  a  successful  lawyer 
and  the  editor  of  a  prominent  New  York  paper.  I 
became  acquainted  with  him  through  a  request  to  write 
some  verses  relative  to  an  incident  that  had  recently 
attracted  considerable  attention  from  the  public  press. 
As  Colonel  Hadley  gave  it  to  me  it  was  something  as 
follows:  A  woman  had  been  convicted  by  one  of  our 
city  judges  and  sent  to  jail.  The  next  morning  her 
little  boy  came  to  the  judge's  room  and  stood  in  silence 
before  the  magistrate. 

"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  curiously  asked  the 
judge. 


150  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Please,  sir,  let  my  mother  go,"  answered  the  little 
fellow. 

"Who  is  your  mother?"  inquired  the  judge. 

"She  came  here  yesterday,"  said  the  boy;  and  gave 
her  name. 

"Oh,"  replied  the  magistrate,  "I  cannot  let  that 
woman  go."     But  the  boy  pleaded. 

"She  is  so  good  to  me.  She  buys  my  clothes  and 
shoes,  and  sends  me  to  school;  and  gees  without  things 
herself  for  me ;  and — please  sir — what  ami  going  to  do 
without  her?" 

Such  argument  had  more  weight  than  the  law.  It 
was  irresistible,  and  the  stern  judge  for  once  quickly 
yielded.  Brushing  the  tears  from  his  eyes  he  called  for 
the  prisoner  to  be  brought.  Then  he  gave  her  a  sharp 
reprimand  and  let  her  go  home  with  her  boy.  The 
woman  threw  her  arms  around  her  little  defender  saying, 
"My  boy,  your  mother  will  never  disgrace  you  again." 

This  was  the  story  that  Colonel  Henry  H.  Hadley 
wished  me  to  put  into  verse.  The  story  remains,  but 
my  poem  has  been  forgotten. 

Then  Colonel  Hadley  asked  me  to  write  once  in 
every  two  wreeks  for  his  paper. 

Once  he  called  for  some  verses  asking  me  to  urge 
men  not  to  drink  intoxicants  during  business  hours; 
and  then  a  poem  pleading  with  them  not  to  drink  for 
twenty-four  hours,  as  an  experiment  to  see  if  they  could 
quit  the  habit;  and  finally  he  asked  for  a  piece  imploring 
them  not  to  drink  at  all.  The  first  two  of  my  poems 
were  condemned  by  some  and  praised  by  others.    A 


WORK  AMONG  MISSIONS  151 

few,  who  believed  in  talking  a  whole  loaf  or  no  bread  at 
all  said  that  I  was  openly  aiding  the  cause  of  intemper- 
ance by  advising  men  to  do  anything  short  of  abstaining 
at  once  and  forever.  But  I  had  confidence  enough 
in  Colonel  Hadley  to  trust  him  not  to  use  these  poems  in 
any  way  which  the  t  best  citizens  might  disapprove. 
Colonel  Hadley  himself  was  by  no  means  an  abstainer 
then;  but  he  was  trying  hard  to  break  the  fetters  that 
bound  him. 

He  was  a  candid  man,  but,  although  he  had  original 
ideas  concerning  religion,  he  never  tried  to  force  his 
views  on  others.  We  sometimes  disagreed;  then  he 
would  generally  say,  "You  are  all  right;  perhaps  I 
shall  see  it  as  you  do  some  day."  And  that  glad  occasion 
did  indeed  finally  come  through  the  prayers  and  efforts 
of  his  brother,  S.  H.  Hadley,  who  had  been  saved  at  the 
Cremorne  Mission. 

For  months  prior  to  Colonel  Hadley's  conversion  I  did 
not  see  him ;  yet  heard  from  time  to  time  that  he  was  not 
holding  out  as  well  as  he  wished  against  evil  habits. 
Later  there  came  a  vague  rumor  that  he  had  started 
over  again.  But  this  news  seemed  too  good  to  be  at 
once  believed,  so  I  waited  until  I  should  hear  from  him 
direct;  for  I  knew  if  the  report  were  true  he  would  come 
to  me,  sooner  or  later,  and  relate  all  the  circumstances 
that  led  him  to  become  a  Christian.  One  evening, 
almost  three  months  later,  I  heard  a  ring  at  the  door 
about  nine  o'clock,  and  someone  asking,  "Is  Fanny 
Crosby  up?"    I  knew  his  voice  and  was  convinced 


152  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

that  he  had  come  to  tell  me  the  glad  news  of  his  con- 
version. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  her,"  he  said," I  have  found 
the  Lord."    When  I  reached  the  door  I  exclaimed, 

"Bless  you,  Colonel  Hadley,  come  right  upstairs 
and  tell  me  all  about  it."  When  I  asked  why  he  had 
not  called  before  he  said, 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  I  would  hold  but." 
Col.  Henry  Hadley  became  a  great  power  for  God; 
and  during  the  seventeen  years  of  his  Christian  life  he 
founded  sixty  missions,  many  of  which  became  perma- 
nent. I  was  acquainted  with  his  brother,  the  late  Samuel 
H.  Hadley,  for  twenty-five  years;  and  it  was  always 
a  rare  pleasure  to  go  down  to  the  old  Water  Street  Mission 
and  see  the  wonderful  work  that  was  being  done  there 
for  the  spread  of  the  Master's  kingdom;  but  the  two 
brothers  have  now  clasped  their  hands  in  glory. 

My  work  among  the  missions  of  New  York  has  been 
largely  supplemented,  during  the  last  thirty  years,  by 
that  among  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associations  in 
various  cities.  Richard  C.  Morse,  a  prince  among 
workers,  was  known  to  me  as  early  as  1868;  and  one 
morning — I  think  it  was  in  187 1 — he  came  to  my  home 
before  I  had  eaten  my  breakfast,  and  asked, 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  today?" 

I  replied  that  I  had  no  particular  plans  and  was 
entirely  at  his  service,  if  I  could  do  any  good.  He  then 
told  me  the  sad  story  of  a  poor  drunkard  who  had  at- 
tempted to  commit  suicide.  Mr.  Morse  had  taken  the 
unfortunate  man  to  his  own  room ;  had  given  him  some- 


FANNY    CROSBY    AS    SHE    APPEARS    WHEN    SPEAKING 
IN  PUBLIC. 


\f 


WORK  AMONG   MISSIONS  153 


thing  to  eat;  and,  as  he  appeared  to  be  more  comfortable 
had  now  come  to  me  to  see  what  we  together  could  do 
for  his  conversion.  The  man  was  finally  redeemed  and 
afterwards  became  a  minister  of  the  gospel. 

That  was  really  my  first  work  among  men.  It  ante- 
dates the  commencement  of  my  labors  among  missions 
by  three  or  four  years;  and  it  was  not  until  1880  that 
I  conducted  frequent  services  for  the  railroad  branches 
of  the  Christian  Association.  As  I  was  entering  a  surface 
car  one  afternoon  I  chanced  to  step  on  the  conductor's 
foot;  and  I  cried, 

"O,  conductor,  I  know  that  I  have  hurt  you,  but 
I  did  not  intend  to.  Will  you  please  forgive  me?" 
He  replied, 

"You  didn't  hurt  me  at  all;  and  if  you  had  you  made 
up  for  it  by  speaking  a  kind  word."  I  believe  it  was  his 
remark  that  turned  my  attention  toward  the  work  among 
railroad  men;  and  it  was  not  long  after  this  that  an 
opportunity  came  for  its  commencement.  Before  the 
month  had  passed  I  was  invited  to  the  home  of  my  friend 
William  Rock,  who  was  superintendent  of  a  surface  car 
line  in  New  York.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  gathering 
a  few  Christian  men  together  on  each  Sabbath  morning 
to  hold  a  prayer  service  for  the  railway  employees.  Only 
a  few  came  at  first,  but  finally  the  little  room  in  the 
car  station  was  filled  with  railroad  "boys."  Although 
this  was  not  a  permanent  organization,  Mr.  Rock's 
little  company  formed  one  of  the  first  associations  of 
railroad  men  in  active  Christian  work. 

The  following  year  I  met  three  members  of  the  Rail- 


154  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

road  Branch  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  which  had  recently  been 
organized  at  Hoboken.  They  were  Tom  Keenan,  Jerry 
George,  and  James  Berwick  and  these  three  men,  to- 
gether with  Benjamin  Locke,  formed  a  quartet  of  earnest 
workers  in  whom  I  have  since  been  interested.  A  week 
after  our  meeting — which  occurred  in  New  York  at  my 
photographer's — they  invited  me  to  visit  the  association 
at  Hoboken.  There  I  met  Mr.  J.  L.  B.  Sunderlin,  then 
secretary  in  that  city;  and  now  at  Albany;  and  from 
that  date  at  least  twice  each  year  we  have  held  a  very 
pleasant  reunion. 

Since  1882  I  have  addressed  the  men  of  the  Christian 
Association  in  various  towns  and  cities;  and  they  have 
given  me  such  a  warm  place  in  their  affections  that  I 
have  been  obliged  to  adopt  five  or  six  hundred  of  them 
throughout  the  Eastern  States.  They,  however,  in  turn 
have  adopted  me;  and  the  Hoboken  Branch  some  years 
ago  gave  me  a  beautiful  little  badge  of  honorary  member- 
ship. 

The  rapid  growth  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  gratifies  my 
heart,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  railway  officials 
and  other  employers  are  coming  to  realize  more  and 
more  that  it  is  to  their  mutual  advantage  to  encourage 
this  noble  work.  In  witness  of  the  growing  sentiment 
in  favor  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  I  need  but  refer  to  the  in- 
creasing number  of  buildings  that  are  erected  yearly 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  young  men  of  all  classes, 
and  for  their  intellectual  and  moral  improvement. 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  quote  a  stanza  from  a  Christ- 


WORK   AMONG    MISSIONS  155 

mas  poem  written  for  the  Railroad  Branch  of  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association  about  ten  years  ago: 

"How  I  would  like  to  shake  your  hands, 

And  greet  you  one  by  one ; 
But  we  are  now  too  far  apart, 

And  this  cannot  be  done. 
Yet  I  can  hope,  and  wish,  and  pray 

That  Heaven's  eternal  joys 
May  fall  like  dew  upon  your  heads, 

My  noble  railroad  boys," 


CHAPTER  X  X 
EVENTS  OF  RECENT  YEARS 

MY  dear  mother,  who  was  so  many  years  a 
comfort  to  me,  passed  peacefully  from  this 
world  to  that  brighter  home  above,  Sep- 
tember 2,  1890.  She  had  lived  to  attain  the 
grand  old  age  of  ninety-one  years;  and  had  always  enjoyed 
good  health  until  a  short  time  before  her  death.  Her 
last  days  were  calm  and  beautiful,  a  blessing  to  all  who 
knew  her.  A  short  time  after  her  death,  as  a  tribute 
of  my  devotion  to  her,  I  composed  the  following  poem : 

"Her  voyage  of  life  is  ended, 

Her  anchor  firmly  cast, 
Her  bark  that  many  a  storm  has  braved 

Is  safe  in  port  at  last. 
Surrounded  by  her  treasured  ones, 

Our  mother  passed  away 
Beneath  the  golden  sunset 

Of  summer's  brightest  day. 

"She  waited  for  the  summons 
That  called  her  to  depart, 
And  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus 

Like  music  in  her  heart. 
Not  hopeless  in  our  sorrow 

We  lay  her  down  to  sleep, 
Where  He,  our  Lord  and  Saviour, 
A  hallowed  watch  will  keep . 
156 


EVENTS   OF  RECENT  YEARS  157 

"We  loved  our  tender  mother 

Far  more  than  words  can  tell, 
And  while  with  deep  emotion 

We  breathe  our  fond  farewell, 
We  know  her  tranquil  spirit 

Has  reached  the  longed-for  shore, 
And  now  with  joy  is  greeting 

The  loved  ones  gone  before. 

"Oh,  mother,  we  are  coming; 

The  time  will  not  be  long 
Till  we  shall  clasp  thy  hand  again, 

And  join  the  blessed  song. 
The  sheaf  of  wheat  is  garnered, 

The  sickle's  work  is  done, 
And  everlasting  glory 

Through  Christ  her  soul  has  won.M 

Besides  often  making  addresses  before  various  religious 
bodies,  such  as  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associations, 
Sabbath  schools  and  churches  of  many  creeds,  during 
the  last  twenty  years,  I  have  been  led  to  write  some  of 
my  most  abiding  hymns:  "Jesus  is  Calling,"  "My 
Saviour  First  of  All,"  "Blessed  Day,"  "Resting  by  the 
River,"  "Never  Say  Good  Bye,"  "He  Hideth  My  Soul," 
"Meet  Me  There,"  "Come  with  Rejoicing,"  "Safe  in 
the  Glory  Land,"  and  "Yes,  There  is  Pardon  for  You." 
"How  many  hymns  have  you  written?"  is  a  question 
I  often  hear.  The  exact  number  has  never  been  recorded 
but  the  Biglow  and  Main  Company  inform  me  that  I 
have  written  five  thousand  five  hundred  for  them  alone; 


15»  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

and  I  may  have  composed  half  as  many  more  for  several 
authors  of  music.  None  of  the  infirmities  incident  to 
old  age  have  touched  me  as  yet;  and  my  active  labors 
still  continue  amid  the  many  kind  friends  whom  God 
has  sent  to  enrich  this  earthly  life.  Among  these  are 
I.  Allan  Sankey,  who  has  set  the  notes  to  many  of  my 
hymns,  Hubert  P.  Main,  Sidney  A.  Saunders,  and  George 
Leonard,  all  of  whom  are,  or  have  been,  associated  with 
the  Biglow  and  Main  Company  of  New  York. 

This  firm  in  1897  issued  a  volume  of  my  poems, 
entitled  "Bells  at  Evening  and  Other  Verses,"  and  con- 
taining one  hundred  twenty-four  pages.  The  initial 
poem,  which  gave  the  title  to  the  book,  was  inspired  by 
a  little  reminiscence  of  the  lovely  village  of  Ledyard, 
New  York,  where  I  visited  more  than  fifty  years  ago; 
and  the  incident  narrated  is  partly  true  and  partly  imagi- 
native. 

The  city  of  Bridgeport  has  always  had  peculiar 
attractions  for  me,  not  only  because  it  has  long  been 
the  home  of  most  of  those  who  are  near  my  heart  by 
ties  of  blood,  but  because  also  of  the  delightful  acquaint- 
ance of  many  of  her  generous  citizens.  Prior  to  1900, 
therefore,  my  sisters  had  urged  me,  for  some  years,  to 
give  up  my  residence  in  New  York;  and  thus  to  consider 
this  city  my  permanent  home.  To  this  end  they  were 
heartily  seconded  by  my  publishers,  who  wished  to 
relieve  me,  as  much  as  possible,  after  a  busy  life,  from 
the  care  and  anxiety  to  which  my  life  as  a  hymn-writer 
necessarily  was  subjected;  and  principally  to  place  me 
under  the  immediate  care  of  those  who  were  ready  and 


EVENTS  OF  RECENT  YEARS  159 

willing  to  do  everything  in  their  power  to  render  me  the 
happiest  mortal  in  the  world.  But  I  did  not  accede  to 
their  request  until,  in  1900,  through  a  serious  illness, 
the  good  Lord  over-ruled  my  objection  to  what  seemed 
like  a  partial  retirement  from  active  labors;  and  so  in 
May  of  that  year  I  bade  farewell  to  my  many  friends  in 
New  York,  assuring  them  that  I  should  visit  them  fre- 
quently, as  I  believed  in  the  enjoyment  of  perfect  health. 
This  has  indeed  been  true ;  since  the  fresh  and  invigorating 
air  did  what  it  had  done  for  me  a  number  of  times  before, 
when  I  came  to  Bridgeport  on  visits  to  my  mother. 
And  I  need  not  say  that  here  I  found  a  rrcst  cordial 
welcome  from  those  whom  I  had  loved  so  long  and  well. 
Besides  my  beloved  sisters,  Mrs.  Julia  M.  Athington 
and  Mrs.  Carrie  W.  Rider,  Mrs.  Athingtcn  has  a  daughter, 
Mrs.  Leschon;  and  I  had  one  brother,  William,  who 
died  in  1880,  leaving  three  children,  Laura  Frances, 
now  Mrs.  William  Tait;  Florence,  now  Mrs.  Henry  D. 
Booth ;  and  Albert  Morris,  who  married  Miss  Clara  Hope; 
all  of  whom,  with  their  children,  live  near  me,  and  serve 
to  make  my  life  like  a  stream  without  a  ripple  upon  its 
silver  waters,  or  a  sky  without  a  cloud  to  dim  the  golden 
sunlight.  Besides  I  have  cousins  in  Hartford,  Bridge- 
port, Savannah,  Georgia,  and  New  York  City. 

Each  summer  for  seven  years  I  have  been  making 
a  delightful  pilgrimage  to  the  beautiful  lake  region  of 
New  York;  and  to  the  Chautauqua  Assembly  on  the 
shores  of  Tuily  Lake.  Here  I  have  found,  close  to 
Nature's  heart,  one  of  the  best  things  that  earth  has  to 
offer  any  mortal;  and  that  is  the  immortal  friendship  of 


160  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

kindred  spirits.  There  I  have  delivered  annually  a 
poem  before  the  Chautauqua  Round  Table,  over  which 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Snyder  Roberts  so  genially  presides,  and 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  H.  Cook,  makes  my  visits  one 
round  of  happy  experiences.  On  the  shores  of  Tully 
Lake  I  also  renewed  my  friendship  with  Dr.  Israel  Par- 
sons and  Miss  Eliza  E.  Hewitt;  and  with  them  have 
passed  many  happy  hours  in  delightful  conversation. 
Miss  Hewitt,  by  her  modest  efforts,  wins  the  affectionate 
regard  of  all  who  come  to  know  her;  and  some  of  her 
hymns,  I  am  sure,  like  "There's  Sunshine  in  My  Soul," 
"Will  There  be  Any  Stars  in  My  Crown?"  "Never 
Alone,"  "  Jesus  Is  Passing  By,"  and  many  others  equally 
familiar,  will  never  die.  Mr.  Will  A.  Post,  who  writes 
a  great  many  sweet  melodies,  is  also  a  frequent  visitor 
in  our  sylvan  home;  and  there  each  summer  we  meet 
our  dear  friends,  Mrs.  Harriett  Blair  Bristol,  Mrs.  Nellie 
R.  Willis  and  Miss  Elizabeth  Corey,  besides  others  with 
whom  I  delight  to  hold  sweet  communion. 

It  was  also  at  Assembly  Park  that  I  first  became 
acquainted,  through  his  own  poems,  with  that  modest 
friend  and  companion  who  has,  from  the  beginning, 
aided  me  generously  and  unselfishly,  in  the  writing  of 
this  book;  but  neither  of  us  dreamed  at  the  first  meeting 
that  the  stream  of  friendship,  touching  the  lives  of 
both,  would  flow  onward  so  pleasantly  without  a  ripple 
to  disturb  the  bosom  of  its  placid  waters. 

Next  to  good  bandits  I  have  been  deeply  interested 
in  the  Indians;  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I  was  highly 
delighted,  as  well  as  honored,  when  Albert  Cusick, 


EVENTS  OF  RECENT  YEARS  1C1 

formerly  chief  of  the  Six  Nations,  told  me  that  he  would 
adopt  me  into  the  Eel  Clan  of  the  Onondagas.  The 
rite  of  adoption  was  performed  in  the  summer  of  1904; 
but  you  need  have  no  fear  of  me,  for  the  hatchet  has 
been  buried  these  many  years. 

Being  now  an  Indian  myself,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to 
tell  an  Indian  legend,  which  has  descended  from  gene- 
ration to  generation  among  the  Onondagas  from  time 
immemorial;  and  it  concerns  the  brave  warrior  Hiawatha, 
that  young  chief  of  the  Onondagas,  whose  heroic  deeds 
have  been  so  often  mentioned  in  story  and  in  song. 

For  many  moons,  the  legend  tells  us,  Hiawatha 
desired  to  unite  the  tribes  of  Central  New  York  into  one 
federation.  So  he  started  on  a  journey  to  smoke  the 
pipe  of  peace  with  the  Mohawks;  and  arriving  at  the 
shore  of  Tully  Lake  he  stopped  to  gaze  on  the  shin- 
ing waters  as  they  caught  the  noonday  sun.  Sud- 
denly a  flock  of  birds  flew  over  the  lake  to  the  north- 
ward; and  the  waters  followed  them,  but  Hiawatha 
could  not  tell  whither  the  birds  or  water  went.  Look- 
ing down  he  saw  a  quantity  of  shells;  and  yet  the 
mystery  was  not  solved.  But  he  gathered  some  of  them, 
and  continued  his  journey  until  he  arrived  at  the  hunt- 
ing grounds  of  the  Mohawks.  The  chief  and  his 
people  were  much  delighted  to  see  Hiawatha;  his  col- 
lection of  shells  attracted  much  attention.  They  were 
willing  to  exchange  blankets  and  corn  for  some  of  the 
bright  trinkets;  and,  thus,  according  to  the  legend  of  the 
Onondagas,  began  the  use  of  shells  for  Indian  money. 

As  I  go  about  the  country  I  often  meet  former  asso- 


162  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


dates  and  not  a  few  friends  with  whom  I  review  the 
events  of  the  past.  My  old  home  at  the  New  York 
Institution  is  still  dear  to  me,  although  there  are  few 
left  there  to  welcome  me  when  I  enter  its  sacred  halls. 
Since  the  death  of  Annie  Sheridan,  a  few  months  ago, 
there  are  only  two,  Hannah  Rodney  and  Alice  Hatchman, 
left  there  of  all  those  who  were  my  pupils.  They  were 
kind  and  affectionate  to  me;  and  although  the  roses  of 
youth  have  faded  and  we  are  walking  along  the  vale 
of  mature  years,  our  love  is  unclouded  and  our  friendship 
unbroken. 

There  are  a  few  other  pupils  living  in  distant  cities 
with  whom  I  often  correspond:  Ellen  Teft  and  Susan 
McLean  of  Syracuse;  and  now  and  then  I  hear  of  others 
in  various  states. 

Mr.  Stephen  Babcock  was  a  teacher  in  the  Institution 
for  more  than  forty  years  and  is  remembered  also  by  me 
as  one  of  my  pupils,  and  still  two  other  friendships  have 
come  down  to  me  as  rich  legacies  from  the  past:  Mr. 
William  B.  Wait,  who  has  served  as  superintendent  of 
the  Institution  since  1864;  and  during  the  last  forty 
years  of  very  faithful  and  efficient  service  has  endeared 
himself  to  both  pupils  and  teachers;  and  Mr.  Harvey 
Fuller,  who  has  been  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends 
and  whose  books  have  been  an  inspiration  to  me.  Within 
a  day  or  two  I  have  received  a  copy  of  his  last  book  of 
poems  entitled  "Hidden  Beauties' '  and  have  heard  it 
read  with  great  interest. 

I  look  back  with  tender  emotions  and  gratitude  to 
the  many  friends  and  acquaintances  who  joined  to  make 


EVENTS  OF  RECENT  YEARS  163 


the  occasion  of  my  eighty-fifth  birthday,  March  24, 
1905,  most  delightful.  Not  only  America  but  England 
and  the  far-off  lands  of  Indi  and  Tasmania  were  lavish 
in  their  congratulations ;  and  in  the  fullness  of  my  heart 
I  exclaimed,  "Surely  'the  lines  are  fallen  to  me  in  pleasant 
places;  yea  I  have  a  goodly  heritage.'"  A  part  of  my 
birthday — as  has  been  my  custom  for  over  twenty  years — 
was  spent  with  the  Biglow  and  Main  Company  in  New 
York;  and  in  the  evening  the  good  people  of  Bridgeport 
united  in  giving  me  a  reception  at  the  First  Methodist 
Church,  which  was  followed  on  the  next  Sunday  evening 
by  an  address  and  impromptu  receptkn  at  the  First 
Baptist  Church.  This  latter  church  gave  me  as  a  birth- 
day gift  a  dollar  for  each  year  of  my  life. 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  has  been  quite  interested 
in  my  book,  has  asked  me  to  allow  her  permission  to 
give  the  following  pen-picture  of  my  personal  appearance 
on  the  evening  of  my  birthday  at  the  reception:  "Miss 
Crosby  wore  a  most  becoming  dress  of  brocaded  satin, 
ashes  of  roses  I  believe  they  call  the  color,  with  a  white 
chiffon  front  and  a  narrow  piping  on  each  side  of  the 
vest  of  pink  and  black  velvet,  which  was  very  dainty  and 
pretty.  As  she  walked  up  the  aisle,  it  was  suggested  that 
the  audience  wave  their  handkerchiefs;  and  the  effect 
thus  produced  was  as  if  a  white  cloud  of  doves  was 
fluttering  over  the  heads  of  all,  suggesting  to  those  who 
know  Miss  Crosby  the  peace  and  good  will  she  sheds 
abroad  upon  our  hearts  by  her  life  of  song  and  of  good 
cheer."    The  dress  above  described  was  also  a  birthday 


164  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

gift,  presented  to  me  by  my  dear  cousins,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
R.  B.  Currier. 

Certain  rumors  have  been  circulated  among  some  of 
the  good  people  who  do  not  know  me  to  the  effect  that 
my  health  is  fast  declining.  About  fifteen  years  ago  there 
was  a  gentleman  in  New  York,  who,  hearing  that  I  was 
dead,  took  the  occasion  to  preach  a  funeral  sermon;  at 
another  time  my  publishers  received  a  telegram,  while  I 
was  in  the  act  of  dictating  a  hymn  that  I  had  just  written, 
asking  at  what  hour  Fanny  Crosby  passed  away;  and 
at  still  another  time  a  great  New  York  paper,  while  I 
was  sitting  at  home  in  perfect  health,  published  the 
intelligence  that  my  death  was  momentarily  expected, — 
but  none  of  these  things  moved  me.  Nor  do  I  myself 
believe  any  of  the  recent  reports  as  to  the  declining  state 
of  my  health ;  where  they  originated  I  do  not  care.  To 
the  good  Lord  be  the  praise  that  they  are  not  true ;  and 
I  patiently  await  the  time  when  He  himself  shall  come  to 
write  my  obituary  in  the  Book  of  Life,  until  when  I  hope 
to  continue  to  labor  with  all  the  energy  that  I  can  com- 
mand. 

Not  long  ago,  while  I  was  visiting  in  Metuchen,  New 
Jersey,  a  friend  came  to  me  and  said,  "I  think  we  have 
your  old  organ  at  our  church."  She  spoke  of  a  favorite 
instrument  upon  which  I  used  to  play  at  the  Institution; 
but  at  first  I  could  not  believe  that  it  was  really  in  ex- 
istence, for  I  had  understood  that  it  had  been  destroyed 
many  years  ago.  They  led  me  to  it  and  said  I  might 
finger  the  beloved  keys  again,  as  I  had  done  so  many 
times.    It  was  a  rare  opportunity,  and  I  confess  that 


EVENTS  OF  RECENT  YEARS  165 

I  shed  tears  of  joy,  yet  a  very  sweet  feeling  took  possession 
of  me  as  I  played  some  of  the  old  melodies  that  we  loved 
and  sang  more  than  sixty  years  ago.  I  fancied  that  time 
had  turned  backward  and  had  borne  me  to  those  halls 
again,  where  I  could  hear  the  familiar  voices  of  our 
pupils  singing  the  classic  melodies.  There  was  Mr.  Reiff 
speaking  kind  words  to  his  scholars ;  there  was  our  quartet 
singing  before  Henry  Clay  and  General  Scott ;  there  was 
Jenny  Lind  again  pouring  forth  her  soul  in  some  Swedish 
or  American  patriotic  air;  and  Ole  Bull  again  held  us 
spellbound  by  the  touching  melodies  of  his  beloved 
violin ;  and  I  thanked  the  good  Father  for  permitting  me 
to  enjoy  that  happy  hour  which  was  indeed  the  earnest 
of  a  happy  life. 

Most  of  the  beloved  voices  of  our  Institution  chorus 
are  now  blending  with  the  grand  anthem  of  the  Choir 
Invisible  in  the  great  Tuneful  City.  But  to  me  they  are 
not  hushed  forevermore,  because  I  sometimes  fancy  that 
I  can  hear  the  sweet,  low  notes  of  the  celestial  melodies. 
Meanwhile  the  music  of  the  voices  around  me  here  upon 
this  beautiful  earth  is  just  as  cheerful  ar.d  inspiring  as 
that  I  heard  in  years  gone  by.  Thus  life  becomes  one 
grand  choral  song,  sweetest  at  its  close;  and  the  tender 
acts  of  kindness,  strewn  all  along  the  way,  are  the  peren- 
nial flowers  that  I  have  been  transplanting  and  gleaning 
in  the  garden  of  memory  for  more  than  eighty  summers. 


CHAPTER  XX 
INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS 

THE  most  enduring  hymns  are  born  in  the 
silences  of  the  soul,  and  nothing  must  be 
allowed  to  intrude  while  they  are  being  framed 
into  language.  Some  of  the  sweetest  melo- 
dies of  the  heart  never  see  the  light  of  the  printed 
page.  Sometimes  the  song  without  words  has  a  deeper 
meaning  than  the  more  elaborate  combinations  of 
words  and  music.  But  in  the  majority  of  instances 
these  two  must  be  joined  in  marriage;  and  unless  they 
are  mutually  complementary  the  resulting  hymn  will  not 
please.  The  mere  fitting  of  words  to  a  melody  is  by  no 
means  all  that  is  necessary;  it  must  be  so  well  done  as 
to  have  the  effect  of  having  been  written  especially  for 
that  melody.  The  poet,  therefore,  must  put  into  metrical 
form  his  thoughts,  aspirations  and  emotions,  in  such 
a  manner  that  the  composer  of  the  music  may  readily 
grasp  the  spirit  of  the  poem  and  compose  notes  that  will 
perfect  the  expression  of  the  poet's  meaning.  And 
a  similar  harmony  of  thought  must  exist  between  the 
composer  of  the  melody  and  the  poet  when  the  music  is 
written  first. 

That  some  of  my  hymns  have  been  dictated  by  the 
blessed  Holy  Spirit  I  have  no  doubt;  and  that  others 
have  been  the  result  of  deep  meditation  I  know  to  be 
true;  but  that  the  poet  has  any  right  to  claim  special 

166 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  16? 

merit  for  himself  is  certainly  presumptuous.  I  have 
sometimes  felt  that  there  was  a  deep  and  clear  well  of 
inspiration  from  which  one  may  draw  the  sparkling 
draughts  that  are  so  essential  to  good  poetry.  At  times 
the  burden  of  inspiration  is  so  heavy  that  the  author 
himself  cannot  find  words  beautiful  enough,  or  thoughts 
deep  enough,  for  its  expression. 

Most  of  my  poems  have  been  written  during  the  long 
night  watches,  when  the  distractions  of  the  day  could 
not  interfere  with  the  rapid  flow  of  thought.  It  has  beea 
my  custom  to  hold  a  little  book  in  my  hand;  and  some- 
how or  other  the  words  seem  to  come  more  promptly 
when  I  am  so  engaged.  I  can  also  remember  more 
accurately  when  the  little  volume  is  in  my  grasp.  Many 
people,  noting  this  peculiar  custom,  have  asked  some 
queer  questions  about  it ;  and  not  a  few  fancy  that  I  may 
indeed  be  able  to  see  what  is  printed  there.  Sometimes 
a  hymn  comes  to  me  by  stanzas  and  needs  only  to  be 
written  down,  but  I  never  have  any  portion  of  a  poem 
committed  to  paper  until  the  entire  poem  is  composed; 
then  there  is  often  much  pruning  and  revising  necessary 
before  it  is  really  finished.  Some  poems,  it  is  true, 
come  as  a  complete  whole,  and  need  no  revision — indeed 
the  best  seem  to  come  that  way — but  the  great  majority 
do  not.  "Safe  in  the  Arms  of  Jesus"  was  composed 
and  written  in  less  than  thirty  minutes ;  but  I  have  often 
spent  three  or  four  hours  on  half  as  many  lines,  and  then 
cast  them  aside  as  worthless. 

In  composing  hymn-poems  there  are  several  ways  cf 
working.     Often  subjects   are   given  to   me  to  which 


168  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

melodies  must  be  adapted.  At  other  times  the  melody 
is  played  for  me  and  I  think  of  various  subjects  appropri- 
ate to  the  music.  In  a  successful  song  words  and  music 
must  harmonize,  not  only  in  number  of  syllables,  but  in 
subject  matter  and  especially  accent.  In  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  the  success  of  a  hymn  depends  directly  upon  these 
qualities.  Thus,  melodies  tell  their  own  tale,  and  it  is 
the  purpose  of  the  poet  to  interpret  this  musical  story 
into  language.  Not  infrequently  a  composer  asks, 
"What  does  that  melody  say  to  you?"  And  if  it  says 
nothing  to  you  the  probability  is  that  your  words  will 
not  agree  with  the  music  when  an  attempt  is  made  to 
join  them.  "Blessed  Assurance"  was  written  to  a 
melody  composed  by  my  friend,  Mrs.  Joseph  F.  Knapp; 
she  played  it  over  once  or  twice  on  the  piano  and  then 
asked  me  what  it  said  to  me.    I  replied, 

"Blessed  assurance,  Jesus  is  mine, 
O  what  a  foretaste  of  glory  divine! 
Heir  of  salvation,  purchase  of  God, 
Born  of  His  spirit,  washed  in  His  blood: 
This  is  my  story,  this  is  my  song, 
Praising  my  Saviour  all  the  day  long." 

The  hymn  thus  written  seemed  to  express  the  experience 
of  both  Mrs.  Knapp  and  myself. 

Generally,  when  a  melody  is  given,  I  choose  my  own 
subject.  Sometimes  the  melody  suggests  the  subject 
at  once;  if  it  does  not  I  lay  it  aside  until  another  time. 
Sometimes  the  words  to  the  melody  come  to  me  faster  than 
I   can   remember   them.     One   evening,   for  instance, 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  169 

Mr.  Sankey  played  a  sweet  air.  I  excused  myself  and 
went  to  my  room  to  compose  the  words  to  "O  My  Re- 
deemer." In  this  way  I  wrote  "I  Am  Thine,  O  Lord" 
to  a  melody  written  by  Mr.  Doane;  and  "When  My 
Lift  Work  Is  Ended"  to  one  written  by  Mr.  Sweney. 

Among  the  great  number  of  hymns  that  I  have  writ- 
ten— eight  thousand  perhaps — it  is  not  always  possible 
for  me  to  remember  even  the  best  of  them.  For  this 
reason  I  have  made  laughable  mistakes.  One  morning, 
for  example,  at  Northfield  the  audience  sang  "Hide  Me, 
O  My  Saviour,  Hide  Me."  But  I  did  not  reccgnize  this 
hymn  as  my  own  production;  and  therefore  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  saying  that  I  was  much  pleased  with  it. 
Turning  to  Mr.  Sankey,  I  asked,  "Where  did  you  get 
that  piece?"  He  paid  no  particular  attention  to  my 
question,  for  he  supposed  I  was  merely  joking;  and  at 
that  moment  the  bell  called  us  to  dinner, — so  both  of 
us  forgot  about  the  hymn.  But  it  was  again  used  at 
the  afternoon  service ;  and  then  I  was  determined  to  know 
who  wrote  it. 

"Mr.  Sankey,"  I  said,  "Now  you  must  tell  me  who 
is  the  author  of  'Hide  Me,  O  My  Saviour.'" 

"Really,"  he  replied,  "don't  you  recall  who  wrote 
that  hymn?  You  ought  to  remember,  for  you  are  the 
guilty  one." 

A  large  number  of  my  hymns  have  gone  out  into 
the  world  bearing  noms-de-plume;  and  hundreds  are 
yet  to  be  set  to  notes;  but  enough  have  already  been 
published  to  make  me  wish  to  avoid  so  many  credits  for 
authorship;  hence  the  long  list  of  pseudonymns  that 


170  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

I  have  adopted.  According  to  Mr.  Hubert  P.  Main, 
who  collected  them  all,  this  list  reached  almost  the  hun- 
dred mark;  many  of  the  names,  however,  were  used 
once  or  twice,  or  at  most  only  for  a  single  book;  and 
a  large  number  of  initials  have  been  used,  especially  in 
early  collections.  Some  of  the  most  frequently  used 
pen-names  are  James  Apple,  Mrs.  A.  E.  Andrews, 
Rose  Atherton,  James  Black,  Henrietta  E.  Blair,  Florence 
Booth,  Charles  Bruce,  Robert  Bruce,  Leah  Carlton, 
Lyman  Cuyler,  Ella  Dale,  Li;  zie  Edwards,  James  Eliott, 
Grace  J.  Frances,  Rian  J.  Frances,  Victoria  Frances, 
Jennie  Garnet,  Jenie  Glen,  Frank  Gould,  Mrs.  Kate 
Grinley,  Ruth  Harmon,  Frances  Hope,  Martha  J.  Lank- 
ton,  W.  Robert  Lindsay,  Sally  Martin,  Sam  Martin, 
Maud  Marion,  Alice  Monteith,  Sally  Smith,  Sam  Smith, 
Victoria  Stewart,  Victoria  Sterling,  Rian  J.  Sterling, 
Julia  Sterling  and  Mrs.  C.  M.  Wilson. 

The  hymn  "O  Child  of  God,  Wait  Patiently"  came 
into  being  at  Northfield.  Mr.  Sankey  played  a  pretty 
air  and  said, 

"Why  not  write  a  poem  for  this  tonight ?"  But 
the  spirit  of  poetry  was  not  with  me  that  evening;  and 
so  I  replied, 

"No,  I  cannot  at  present;  for  I  have  few  ideas  and 
they  are  not  poetic."  The  following  morning  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Sankey  were  going  for  a  drive,  and  they  expected 
that  I  would  go  with  them;  but,  to  their  astonishment, 
I  said, 

"Please  excuse  me  today;  as  I  have  something  else 
I  wish  to  do."    A  few  minutes  after  they  left  a  number 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  171 

of  students  came  in;  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant  chat. 
Something  that  one  of  them  said  touched  my  heart; 
and  after  they  went  away  I  sat  down  at  the  piano;  played 
Mr.  Sankey's  melody  once  or  twice;  and  then  the  words 
of  the  hymn  came  in  regular  order  as  they  now  stand : 

uO  child  of  God,  wait  patiently 

When  dark  thy  path  may  be, 
And  let  thy  faith  lean  trustingly 

On  Him  who  cares  for  thee; 
And  though  the  clouds  hang  drearily 

Upon  the  brow  of  night; 
Yet  in  the  morning  joy  will  come, 

And  fill  thy  soul  with  light." 

While  the  great  majority  of  my  hymns  seemed  to  be 
the  result  of  some  passing  mood,  or  of  some  deep,  though 
intangible  feeling,  whose  expression  demanded  the 
language  of  poetry,  quite  a  number  were  called  into 
being  in  response  to  a  definite  event  in  my  own  life. 
"Hold  Thou  My  Hand,"  for  which  Hubert  P.  Main 
wrote  the  music,  belongs  to  this  class.  For  a  number 
of  days  before  I  wrote  this  hymn,  all  had  seemed  dark 
to  me.  That  was  indeed  an  unusual  experience,  for 
I  have  always  been  most  cheerful;  and  so  in  my  human 
weakness  I  cried  in  prayer,  "Dear  Lord,  hold  Thou  my 
hand."  Almost  at  once  the  sweet  peace  that  comes 
of  perfect  assurance  returned  to  my  heart,  and  my  grati- 
tude for  this  evidence  of  answered  prayer  sang  itself  in 
the  lines  of  the  hymn, 


17*  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Hold  Thou  my  hand,  so  weak  I  am  and  helpless, 
I  dare  not  take  one  step  without  Thy  aid ; 
Hold  Thou  my  hand,  for  then,  O  loving  Saviour 
No  dread  of  ill  shall  make  my  soul  afraid." 

After  the  death  of  the  great  Charles  Spurgeon  his 
wife  wrote  for  a  copy  of  this  poem  and  said  she  had 
found  comfort  from  hearing  it  sung. 

Once  while  on  a  visit  to  William  J.  Kirkpatrick 
some  of  us  were  talking  of  how  soon  we  grow  weary  of 
earthly  pleasures,  however  bright  they  may  be. 

"Well"  remarked  the  professor,  "we  are  never 
weary  of  the  grand  old  song." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "but  what  comes  next?"  He  hesi- 
tated and  I  said,  "Why,  glory  to  God,  hallelujah." 
Mr.  Kirkpatrick  sang  an  appropriate  melody  and  I 
wrote  the  hymn, 

"We  are  never,  never  weary  of  the  grand  old  song, 
Glory  to  God,  hallelujah! 
We  can  sing  it  in  the  Spirit  as  we  march  along, 
Glory  to  God,  hallelujah!" 

Besides  this  I  have  written  hundreds  of  hymns  for 
Mr.  Kirkpatrick,  many  of  which  have  been  very  popular, 
and  are  still  being  sung  in  all  quarters  of  the  Christian 
world.  One  day  he  played  a  beautiful  melody  and  said, 
"Now  let  us  have  a  regular  shouting  Methodist  hymn," 
and  I  composed  the  hymn  "I'm  So  Glad,"  the  chorus 
of  which  is, 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  173 

"I'm  so  glad,  I'm  so  glad, 
I'm  so  glad  that  Jesus  came, 
He  came  to  save  me." 

"Speed  Away,  Speed  Away,  on  your  Mission  of 
Light"  was  written  after  hearing  the  beautiful  Indian 
melody  which  Mr.  Sankey  arranged  for  my  words. 
The  original  Indian  poem  told  the  story  of  a  young 
maiden  who  died  leaving  her  father  to  mourn  her  un- 
timely loss,  and  how  he  was  comforted  by  a  message 
brought  him  by  a  bird  she  had  sent  from  the  Happy 
Hunting  Grounds.  This  melody  seemed  so  beautiful 
that  we  thought  it  ought  to  have  hymn-words  and  "Speed 
Away"  was  the  outcome  of  this  feeling.  I  wrote  it 
hoping  that  it  might  inspire  someone  to  go  into  the 
mission  fields  across  the  sea. 

One  day  Mr.  Doane  played  the  air  to  "We  Shall 
Reach  the  Summer  Land,"  and  we  thought  it  best  to 
wait  for  an  appropriate  subject.  A  few  days  later  a  tele- 
gram came  announcing  the  death  of  a  friend;  and  I 
wrote  a  hymn  to  his  music  for  the  bereaved  family. 
"No  Sorrow  There"  was  also  written  under  similar 
circumstances.  "God  Leadeth"  was  inspired  by  the 
sympathy  I  felt  with  a  friend  in  his  struggles,  and  a  num- 
ber of  hymns  have  been  written  after  conversing  with 
friends  concerning  various  phases  of  Christian  experience. 
"Press  Toward  the  Mark"  was  inspired  by  a  watch- 
night  address  by  Dr.  Theodore  L.  Cuyler  and  the  music 
was  composed  by  Miss  Upham. 

"  Jesus,  My  All "  was  written  as  early  as  1866.     Some- 


174  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YE4RS 

one  was  singing  the  air  to  the  old  Scotch  song 
" Robin  Adair,"  and  I  remarked  how  beautiful  it 
was.  Henry  Brown  said,  "I  challenge  you  to  write  a 
hymn  to  that  melody."  I  immediately  wrote  the 
words  following, 

"Lord,  at  Thy  mercy-seat, 

Humbly  I  fall, 
Pleading  Thy  promise  sweet, 

Lord  hear  my  call; 
Now  let  Thy  work  begin, 

Oh,  make  me  pure  within, 
Cleanse  me  from  every  sin, 

Jesus,  my  all." 

Another  of  the  hymns  written  during  Mr.  Bradbury's 
life  is,  "Good  Night  Until  We  Meet  in  the  Morning." 
One  afternoon  a  little  party  of  us,  including  Philip 
Phillips,  William  B.  Bradbury,  Sylvester  Main,  Harry 
Brown  and  myself,  were  talking  about  various  things, 
and  when  we  came  to  separate  Mr.  Phillips  said, 

"Good  night  until  we  rceet  in  the  rrorning." 

The  idea  caught  my  fancy  at  once;  and  I  said  to  Mr. 
Bradbury, 

"If  I  write  a  hymn  for  that  subject,  will  you  compose 
the  music?"  He  said  that  he  would;  and  the  words 
were  written  that  same  evening.  Other  hymns  written 
before  1868  are  "The  Prodigal's  Return,"  "Let  the 
Good  Angels  Come  In,"  "Lord,  Abide  with  Me,"  "Wel- 
come Hour  of  Prayer"  and  "Our  Loved  Ones  Gone 
Before." 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  175 

On  April  30,  1868,  Dr.  W.  H.  Doane  came  into  my 
house,  and  said, 

"I  have  exactly  forty  minutes  before  my  train  leaves 
for  Cincinnati.  Here  is  a  melody.  Can  you  write 
words  for  it?"  I  replied  that  I  would  see  what  I  could 
do.  Then  followed  a  space  of  twenty  minutes  during 
which  I  was  wholly  unconscious  of  all  else  except  the 
work  I  was  doing.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  recited 
the  words  to  "Safe  in  the  Arms  of  Jesus."  Mr.  Doane 
copied  them,  and  had  time  to  catch  his  train. 

There  are  a  great  many  beautiful  stories  connected 
with  this  hymn.  Ira  D.  Sankey  related  a  conversation 
with  a  simple  Scotch  woman  who  came  to  him  after 
a  great  meeting. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  writing  'Safe  in  the  Arms 
of  Jesus,'"  she  said. 

"My  daughter  was  very  fond  of  it  and  sang  it  as  she 
passed  to  the  life  beyond." 

"But,"  replied  the  evangelist,  "I  did  not  write  the 
hymn.  Fanny  Crosby  wrote  the  words  and  W.  H. 
Doane  the  music.  Sit  down,  my  good  woman,  and  I 
will  tell  you  about  it."  A  look  of  disappointment  passed 
over  the  dear  woman's  face;  but  as  she  listened  to  Mr. 
Sankey's  story  her  countenance  again  lighted  up  and 
she  said, 

"When  ye  gang  back  to  America  tell  Fanny  Crosby 
that  an  auld  Scots  woman  sends  her  blessing  and  her 
love." 

The  late  Dr.  John  Hall  used  to  tell  a  touching  story 
of  "Safe  in  the  Arms  of  Jesus."    He  went  to  see  the 


176  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

little  daughter  of  one  of  his  congregation;  and  her  father 
came  downstairs  in  tears. 

"My  dear  friend,"  asked  the  clergyman,  "what  is 
the  trouble  ?    Has  the  little  girl  gone  home  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  the  father,  "but  she  has  asked  me  to 
do  something  that  I  cannot  do;  anything  that  wealth 
might  buy  she  may  have,  but  I  cannot  sing  '  Safe  in  the 
Arms  of  Jesus' ;  for  I  never  sang  a  note  in  my  life." 

"Oh,"  said  Dr.  Hall,  "I  will  go  up  and  sing  it  for 
her."    When  he  reached  the  last  two  lines  of  the  hymn 

"Wait  till  I  see  the  morning 
Break  on  the  golden  shore," 

the  spirit  of  the  child  passed  to  that  land  where  all  shall 
sing  the  melodies  of  Zion. 

Another  incident  of  the  singing  of  "  Safe  in  the  Arms 
of  Jesus"  was  related  by  a  sea  captain,  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  holding  services  on  board  his  vessel.  From 
Sabbath  to  Sabbath  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  certain 
man  who  did  not  unite  with  the  others  when  they  sang 
that  hymn.  At  last  he  approached  the  sailor  and  in- 
quired if  he  did  not  enjoy  the  meetings. 

"Oh,  yes,"  the  latter  replied,  "but  I  am  not  'Safe  in 
the  arms  of  Jesus ' ;  and  I  cannot  sing  that  hymn."  The 
captain  prayed  with  him,  and  as  a  direct  result  of  the 
interview,  ere  the  next  Sabbath,  the  sailor  was  singing 
the  piece  with  the  rest. 

On  one  occasion  as  Mr.  Doane  and  I  were  travelling 
from  Cincinnati  to  New  York  he  composed  a  melody 
which  he  whistled  to  me,  and  suggested  that  I  compose 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  177 


the  words  to  accompany  it.     I  told  him  I  would,  and 
in  a  short  time  I  wrote  the  hymn  beginning, 

"  Jesus,  I  love  Thee,  Thou  art  to  me 
Dearer  than  mortal  ever  can  be." 

This  hymn  was  published  in  a  book  called  "The 
Diadem"  and  copied  into  an  English  song  collection. 
A  few  years  later  Mr.  Doane  received  a  letter  from 
England,  written  at  the  request  of  a  dying  woman  by  her 
pastor.  She  had  been  brought  under  conviction  by  the 
singing  of  our  hymn ;  had  given  herself  to  the  Lord ;  and 
before  her  death  had  been  the  means  of  leading  over 
twenty  souls  into  the  light.  Some  years  after  this  Mr. 
Doane  attended  a  large  meeting  at  Vernon,  Ohio;  and 
after  the  service  a  man  came  to  him  and  asked, 

"Do  you  remember  receiving  a  letter  from  a  gentle- 
man in  England  concerning  a  lady's  conversion  after 
hearing  'Jesus,  I  Love  Thee?'  Well,  I  am  the  one 
who  wrote  the  letter."  Mr.  Doane  told  me  the  meeting 
seemed  providential. 

Some  years  after  the  writing  of  "  Jesus,  I  Love  Thee  " 
Mr.  Stebbins  came  to  me  and  said, 

"I  think  I  have  something  both  of  us  will  enjoy.  I 
have  a  melody  here,  and  would  like  to  have  you  write 
the  words  for  it  while  we  are  together."  He  played  it 
over  for  me  and  I  was  pleased  with  the  tune  and  wrote 
"They  Tell  Us  of  a  Land  So  Fair."  Mr.  Stebbins  also 
wrote  the  music  to  "Jesus  is  Calling,"  "No  Sorrow 
There,"  "The  Day  Star  Hath  Risen,"  "O  Sing  of  My 
Redeemer,"  and  many  others. 


178  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Victory  Through  Grace"  was  written  under  the 
following  circumstances:  Mr.  Sweney  sent  me  the  title 
and  asked  me  to  write  a  sort  of  a  battle  piece.  A  day  or 
two  later  he  came  to  see  me.  I  told  him  I  had  already 
begun  the  hymn ;  and  repeated  as  much  as  I  had  finished. 
"Go  on,"  he  said,  "that  is  right;  we'll  have  our  battle 
song."  The  remainder  of  the  hymn  was  written  while 
he  was  at  my  house.  Mr.  Sweney  also  wrote  the  music 
to  "Only  a  Beam  of  Sunshine,"  "The  Saviour  Precious" 
and  "Sing  On,"  and  scores  of  others. 

It  was  a  cold,  rainy  day,  and  everything  had  gone 
wrong  with  me  during  the  morning.  I  realized  that 
the  fault  was  mine;  but  that  did  not  help  the  matter. 
About  noon  the  sky  began  to  be  clear;  and  a  friend 
standing  near  me  said,  "There  is  only  a  beam  of  sun- 
shine, but,  oh,  it  is  warm  and  bright";  and,  on  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  I  wrote  the  hymn, 

"Only  a  beam  of  sunshine,  but,  oh,  it  was  warm  and 
bright, 
The  heart  of  a  weary  traveller  was  cheered  by  its  wel- 
come light." 

"Now  Just  a  Word  for  Jesus"  was  written  with  the 
idea  of  influencing  people  at  prayer  meetings  to  give  their 
testimonies  and  to  give  them  promptly.  One  day  some- 
one was  talking  about  wealth;  and  he  said,  "If  I  had 
wealth  I  would  be  able  to  do  just  what  I  wish  to  do; 
and  I  would  be  able  to  make  an  appearance  in  the  world." 
I  replied,  "Take  the  world,  but  give  me  Jesus."  This 
remark  led  me  to  write  the  hymn  having  that  title. 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  179 

On  one  occasion  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  had  been  at  my 
home ;  and  as  he  was  going  away  I  said, 

"Oh,  dear,  it's  nothing  but  meeting  and  parting  in 
this  world,  is  it?"    He  replied, 

"Well,  I  will  not  say  as  Bliss  did  'meet  me  at  the 
fountain,'  but  I  will  say,  'where  the  tree  of  life  is  bloom- 
ing, meet  me  there.'  "  Not  long  afterward  I  wrote 
the  hymn  entitled  "Meet  Me  There." 

"I  Am  Satisfied"  was  written  during  the  summer 
of  1902  while  I  was  visiting  Dr.  William  H.  Doane. 
One  morning  I  received  a  telegram  announcing  the  death 
of  a  very  dear  friend ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  under 
the  circumstances  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  occupy  my 
mind  by  writing  as  many  hymns  as  I  could.  I  accordingly 
secluded  myself  where  I  could  hear  the  music  of  Old 
Ocean,  and  wrote  "I  Am  Satisfied." 

Mr.  Sylvester  Main  was  a  little  depressed  one  day, 
and  I  said  that  if  we  were  always  at  peace  with  God 
these  trials  would  not  annoy  us  as  they  do  now. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "and  I  very  often  have  to  exclaim, 
'Lord  abide  with  me'";  and  his  remark  inspired  me  to 
write  the  hymn  bearing  this  title. 

"Valley  of  Eden,  Beyond  the  Sea"  is  one  of  my 
hymns  of  which  I  have  erred  concerning  the  authorship. 
On  one  occasion  I  heard  a  lady  singing  it,  and  I  rushed 
downstairs,  exclaiming, 

"Where  did  you  get  that  beautiful  rrelcdy  and  words  ?" 
"Well,"  she  replied,    "Mr.    Kirkpatrick    wrote  the 
melody." 

"But,"   I   said,   "who   wrote   those   words?"    She 


180  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

replied,  "  Someone  who  is  in  the  habit  of  writing  for 
him."  Even  then  I  did  not  recognize  my  own  words; 
and  she  finally  said  that  she  would  sing  the  hymn  once 
more,  which  she  did ;  and  to  my  embarrassment  I  remem- 
bered writing  it. 

Dr.  Lowry  gave  me  the  subject  to  "The  bright  For- 
ever" and  I  tried  for  two  days  to  write  the  hymn.  Then 
all  at  once,  almost  in  a  twinkling,  the  words  came  stanza 
by  stanza  as  fast  as  I  could  memorize  them.  Hubert  P. 
Main  wrote  the  music,  which  has  done  so  much  to  popu- 
larize the  hymn.  He  also  wrote  the  notes  for  "Hold 
Thou  My  Hand"  (in  1874)  "Blessed  Homeland,"  "Yes, 
There  is  Pardon  for  You,"  and  other  hymns. 

"Blessed  Assurance"  was  written  in  1873.  The 
music  was  composed  by  Mrs.  Joseph  F.  Knapp,  who 
became  known  to  me  as  early  as  1868,  and  who  has  also 
written  the  notes  to  several  hymns  of  mine,  including 
"Nearer  The  Cross,"  and  "Open  the  Gates,  of  the 
Temple."  An  English  religious  weekly  gives  the  follow- 
ing account  of  how  soldiers  use  "God  Be  With  You" 
and  "Blessed  Assurance"  for  passwords.  When  one 
member  of  the  Soldiers '  Christian  Association  meets 
a  comrade  he  says  "494"  which  is  the  number  of  "God 
Be  With  You  Till  We  Meet  Again"  in  "Sacred  Songs 
and  Solos";  the  latter  replies  "6  farther  on,"  that  is  500, 
which  is  the  number  of  "Blessed  Assurance."  Of  this 
custom  the  secretary  of  the  Association  writes,  "These 
hymns  are  constantly  being  used  by  our  members  as 
greeting  and  response;  and  I  do  not  think  any  member 
of  the  Soldiers'  Christian  Association  ever  writes  without 


INCIDENTS   OF  HYMNS  181 

putting  them  somewhere  on  the  letter  or  envelope.  I 
have  had  dozens  of  letters  from  South  Africa  alone ;  and 
in  my  visits  to  garrisons  and  soldiers'  homes  no  meeting 
is  considered  closed  until  'God  Be  With  You'  has  been 
sung." 

In  one  of  Mr.  Sankey's  meetings  a  man  came  forward 
and  requested  that  someone  offer  a  prayer  for  him. 
He  appeared  to  be  deeply  distressed  in  spirit;  and  when 
they  said  that  he  might  come  again  the  next  night,  he 
cried  earnestly, 

"No,  it  must  be  settled  tonight;  for  tomorrow  may 
be  too  late."  They  listened  to  his  appeal,  and  before 
he  left  the  church  he  felt  that  he  was  saved.  The  next 
day  there  was  an  explosion  in  the  mine  where  he  worked, 
and  he  was  among  the  slain.  This  story  was  related 
to  me  by  Mr.  Sankey  and  I  wrote  the  hymn  "Shall  I 
Be  Saved  Tonight  ?" 

"Saw  Ye  Not  the  Promised  Day?"  a  missionary 
hymn,  to  which  William  F.  Sherwin  wrote  the  music, 
was  inspired  by  a  remark  that  the  day  of  the  Lord  was 
coming. 

"Pass  Me  Not,  O  Gentle  Saviour"(i868)  was  written 
not  long  after  the  hymn  "More  Like  Jesus,"  the  incident 
relating  to  which  has  already  been  told.  A  number  of 
stories  have  been  called  forth  by  the  singing  of  that  hymn ; 
and  perhaps  the  best  of  these  is  the  following:  In  a 
Western  state  lived  an  old  man  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
going  fishing  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Near  the  pond  was 
a  small  school  house  in  which  was  held  a  Sabbath  school. 
Frequently  they  used  to  sing  "Pass  Me  Not"  during  the 


182  MEMORIES  OF  EIGTHY  YEARS 

afternoon  service;  and  for  some  reason,  he  knew  not 
why,  the  old  man  could  not  forget  that  melody.  One 
day  he  could  resist  no  longer;  he  threw  down  his  fishing 
rod,  and  went  up  to  the  school  house.  They  invited 
him  into  the  Sunday  school ;  but  he  said, 

"No,  I  cannot  go  in  today;  for  I  am  not  dressed 
well  enough."  He  finally  promised  to  enter  on  the 
condition  that  the  children  should  sing  "Pass  Me  Not, 
O  Gentle  Saviour."  For  more  than  fifty  years  he  had 
not  darkened  the  church  door;  but  the  old  memories 
began  to  come  back  again;  and  he  could  not  resist  their 
appeal.  Two  years  later  he  attended  a  convention  at 
which  Dr.  Doane  was  present,  and  related  the  story, 
concluding  with  the  words,  "God  bless  William  H. 
Doane  and  Fanny  Crosby." 

"Rescue  the  Perishing,"  as  I  have  intimated,  was 
written  after  a  meeting  at  one  of  the  New  York  missions. 
Sometime  after  the  hymn  became  known  I  was  at  a 
service  one  evening  and  a  young  man  told  the  story  of 
his  conversion.  Poor  and  hungry,  he  had  walked  the 
streets  for  want  of  something  better  to  do.  He  heard 
the  singing  at  a  mission;  he  went  in;  and  before  the 
service  was  concluded  his  heart  broke  in  contrition. 

"I  was  just  ready  to  perish"  he  said  to  me,  "but 
that  hymn,  by  the  grace  of  God  saved  me." 

As  I  stood  there  face  to  face  with  that  young  man, 
the  audience  was  thrilled  with  the  pathos  of  our  meeting 
for  the  first  time;  and  tears  were  shed  in  every  part  of 
the  room. 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  183 


"Only  a  Little  Way,"  said  a  dear  old  lady,  who  had 
been  suffering  acute  pain,  as  she  looked  up  into  the  clear 
blue  sky  just  as  the  sun  was  setting;  "  'tis  only  a  little 
way  on  to  my  home,"  and  from  this  I  wrote  the  hymn 
bearing  that  title.  "Jesus,  Dear,  I  Come  to  Thee,"  was 
a  children's  song,  which  I  wrote,  both  words  and  music, 
for  the  book  called  "Fresh  Laurels,"  in  1867.  "Lord, 
I  Am  Weary"  was  written  during  the  winter  of  1867, 
while  Mr.  Bradbury  was  in  St.  Paul,  to  music  which  he 
sent  to  Sylvester  Main.  One  day,  before  he  went  to 
Minnesota  for  his  health,  Mr.  Bradbury  asked  me  to 
write  a  hymn  to  the  title,  "Let  the  Good  Angels  Come 
In";  and  when  it  was  finished  he  said, 

"Fanny,  I  am  more  pleased  with  this  than  I  can  tell 
you,  and  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  let  me 
know." 

One  afternoon  Sylvester  Main  was  humming  a 
melody  and  I  said  to  him, 

"Oh,  Mr.  Main  that  is  beautiful;  and  if  you  will  let 
me,  I  am  going  to  write  a  hymn  for  it." 

"Well"  he  said  in  his  gentle  way,  "if  you  think  it  is 
worth  it,  you  may  do  so."  I  composed  "I  Come  to  Thee," 
and  it  was  very  often  sung  to  Mr.  Main's  music. 

William  F.  Sherwin  once  asked  me  to  write  the  words 
to  a  melody  that  he  had  composed  for  the  May  Annual, 
for  which  several  Sunday  schools  united  to  sing  various 
hymns  and  hold  public  exercises.  He  asked  me  to 
write  a  piece  so  smooth  that  the  air  would  sing  itself; 
and  I  wrote 


184  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Sing  with  a  tuneful  spirit, 
Sing  with  a  cheerful  lay, 
Praise  to  thy  great  Creator, 
While  on  the  pilgrim  way." 

Within  the  last  five  or  six  years  I  have  written  a 
number  of  hymns  for  I.  Allan  Sankey,  among  them 
"O  Look  and  Live,"  "There's  Work  to  Do,"  "Never 
Give  Up,"  "Show  Me  Thy  Way,"  "Bring  Them  In" 
and  a  "  Rallying  Song,"  for  the  recent  Christian  Endeavor 
Convention,  the  music  for  which  was  pronounced  by 
a  friend  of  mine  "  unusually  sweet  and  beautiful."  From 
childhood  Mr.  Allan  Sankey  has  been  noted  for  a  bright, 
sunny  disposition;  and  an  intense  love  for  the  arts., 
especially  that  of  music,  in  which  he  has  so  eminently 
distinguished  himself  in  later  years.  I  used  to  be  so 
fond  of  his  playing  that,  on  several  occasions,  I  have 
neglected  to  write  hymns,  when  expected  to  do  so. 

I  have  already  told  the  incident  concerning  the  first 
time  that  "Saved  by  Grace "  was  recited  in  public.  That 
occurred  in  the  summer  of  1894;  but  the  words  had  been 
written  and  sent  to  the  publishers  more  than  two  years 
previous,  although  they  had  not  yet  been  set  to  music. 
The  hymn  itself  was  called  into  being  through  a  little 
incident  in  a  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Howard  Crosby 
who  was  a  distant  relative  and  a  dear  friend  of  mine. 
He  said  that  no  Christian  should  fear  death,  for  if  each 
of  us  was  faithful  to  the  grace  given  us  by  Christ,  the 
same  grace  that  teaches  us  how  to  live  would  also  teach 
us  how  to  die,    His  remarks  were  afterward  published 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  185 

in  a  newspaper;  and  they  were  read  to  me  by  Mr.  Biglow. 
Not  many  hours  after  I  heard  them  I  began  to  write 
the  hymn, 

"Some  day  the  silver  chord  will  break, 
And  I  as  now  no  more  shall  sing, 
But,  oh,  the  joy  when  I  shall  wake 
Within  the  palace  of  the  King." 

A  friend  sends  the  following  story  relative  to  "  Saved 
by  Grace."  She  and  a  companion  were  attending  one 
of  the  auditorium  meetings  at  Northfield ;  and  that  hymn 
was  sung.  My  friend  made  some  remark  concerning  her 
acquaintance  with  me;  and  a  lady,  who  was  sitting 
directly  in  front  of  her,  happened  to  catch  it.  Turning 
around  she  asked  eagerly, 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  know  the 
author  of  'Saved  by  Grace?'"  On  being  assured  that 
she  heard  correctly,  she  continued, 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  her  what  this  hymn  has  done 
for  me?  Twelve  years  ago  I  was  assailed  by  a  great 
temptation  at  an  important  crisis  in  my  life; and,  although 
I  had  been  a  professing  Christian,  I  was  on  the  point  of 
deciding  for  the  wrong  course.  In  this  state  of  mind 
I  entered  a  little  chapel,  not  so  much  to  hear  the  sermon 
as  to  listen  to  the  sweet  singing,  and  most  of  all  to  think 
out  my  own  problem.  Of  the  sermon  I  did  not  hear 
one  word;  but  when  the  soloist  began  to  sing,  'I  Shall  see 
Him  face  to  face,*  my  heart  melted.  It  seemed  that 
God  had  spoken  to  me  through  the  voice  of  that  song; 
and  I  at  once  decided  to  take  the  right  path;  and  ever 


186  MEMORIES  OF  EICxIITY  YEARS 

—^^1— ^— —— PMM^^M^a— — — an^Miin  Hill— ^^— — 

since  I  have  felt  that  the  hymn  saved  me.  I  have  longed 
to  see  Fanny  Crosby ;  and  if  you  ever  meet  her,  please  tell 
her  the  story  for  me." 

Among  the  many  incidents  of  "Saved  by  Grace"  is 
one  told  in  a  small  Episcopal  church  in  Pennsylvania  by 
a  woman  who  had  been  an  actress.  She  said  that  she 
had  been  indifferent  to  all  religious  influence  and  on 
a  certain  day  was  going  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  pleasure 
at  one  of  the  public  parks.  As  she  was  passing  along 
the  street,  unconscious  of  her  surroundings,  she  was 
attracted  by  some  singing;  and  stopped  out  of  pure 
curiosity  to  find  that  an  Epworth  League  was  conducting 
services  in  the  open  air.  They  were  singing  "Saved  by 
Grace"  and  all  the  tender  recollections  of  childhood 
came  trooping  before  her  mental  vision;  and  as  a  result 
of  the  service  there  that  afternoon  she  fell  on  her  knees 
and  asked  the  forgiveness  of  God. 

The  melody  to  "My  Saviour  First  of  All"  was  given 
me  by  Mr.  John  R.  Sweney  and  he  requested  that  I  write 
something  "tender  and  pathetic."  I  prayed  that  appro- 
priate words  might  be  given  me  for  his  music ;  and  the 
train  of  thought  then  started  finally  brought  me  to  the 
sweet  consciousness  that  I  will  know  my  Saviour  by  the 
print  of  the  nails  in  his  hand.     Then  I  wrote, 

"When  my  life-work  is  ended  and  I  cross  the  swelling 
tide, 
When  the  bright  and  glorious  morning  I  shall  see, 
I  shall  know  my  Redeemer  when  I  reach  the  other  side, 
And  His  smile  will  be  the  first  to  welcome  me." 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  187 

The  following  beautiful  incident  was  sent  me  not 
long  ago.  There  appeared  in  London  a  man  who  styled 
himself  the  Messiah;  and  for  many  weeks  a  large  crowd 
was  attracted  to  him.  One  night,  however,  as  he  was 
talking  in  one  of  the  open  squares  in  the  city,  a  small 
band  of  the  Salvation  Army  passed  along  singing, 

"I  shall  know  Him,  I  shall  know  Him, 
By  the  print  of  the  nails  in  His  hand." 

The  great  throng  joined  in  the  chorus.  Finally  someone 
pointed  to  the  self-styled  Christ  and  said,  "Look  at  his 
hands  and  see  if  the  print  of  the  nails  is  there."  They 
did  as  directed,  but  no  print  appeared;  and  they  at  once 
left  off  following  him. 

In  October,  1905,  while  I  was  at  Leominster,  Massa- 
chusetts, I  told  this  incident  as  I  have  just  given  it;  and 
after  its  conclusion,  a  gentleman  from  the  audience  said 
to  me, 

"That  story  is  true,  every  word  of  it;  for  I  was  there 
myself;  and  I'll  never  forget  it." 

Shortly  after  my  mother's  death  in  1890  John  R. 
Sweney  requested  me  to  send  him  a  poem,  but  he  did 
not  send  any  subject;  and  so  I  was  free  to  make  my 
own  selection.  A  title  came  to  me,  "Over  the  River 
They  Call  Me"  and  I  wrote, 

"Over  the  river  they  call  me, 

Friends  that  are  dear  to  my  heart, 

Soon  I  shall  meet  them  in  glory, 
Never,  no  never,  to  part. 


188  MEMORIES  OF   EIGHTY  YEARS 

Over  the  river  they  call  me, 

Hark  'tis  their  voices  I  hear, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  the  twilight, 

Tenderly,  softly  and  clear." 

"Beautiful  Waters  of  Eden"  was  written  after  I  heard 
Prof.  Adam  GeibeFs  beautiful  melody. 

We  were  riding  out  one  day,  and  Mr.  Sankey  said 
"There's  sunshine  on  the  hill,  even  though  there  are 
shadows  in  the  valley,"  and  his  remark  led  me  to  write 
the  hymn  in  which  those  words  are  used. 

The  hymn  beginning 

"Dark  is  the  night,  and  cold  the  wind  is  blowing, 
Nearer  and  nearer  come  the  breakers'  roar," 

was  written  for  Theodore  E.  Perkins.  In  one  of  my 
meetings  during  the  autumn  of  1905  a  man  came  up  to 
me,  sang  the  first  line  of  that  hymn,  and  said, 

"Praise  the  Lord,  that  song  was  the  means  of  my 
conversion,  and  I  have  been  singing  it  for  years." 

"  Oh  what  are  you  going  to  do,  brother, 
Say  what  are  you  going  to  do; 
You  have  thought  of  some  useful  employment, 
But  what  is  the  end  in  view?" 

was  written  in  1867  for  Philip  Phillips,  who  came  to  me 
one  afternoon  and  asked  me  if  I  could  write  something 
that  would  be  appropriate  for  men  of  all  ages,  and  par- 
ticularly for  business  men. 

I  have  already  referred  to  my  dear  friend,  Miss  Mary 
E.  Upham,  now  Mrs.  R.  B.  Currier.    For  a  number, 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  189 

of  years  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  assist  her  as  a 
gospel  singer  by  contributing  hymns,  many  of  which 
were  written  after  some  incident.  When  Andrew  Murray 
was  holding  evangelistic  meetings  in  this  country  he  was 
used  by  the  Spirit  to  lead  Mrs.  Currier  into  deeper  con- 
secration by  giving  up  all  secular  songs  and  using  her 
voice  only  for  sacred  hymns.  The  Scripture  that  Dr. 
Murray  used  was  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  John's  Gospel; 
and  in  telling  me  of  her  experience,  under  the  Spirit's 
leading  I  was  inspired  to  write  the  hymn  "Ever  Abiding, 
Thou  Keepest  My  Heart."  This  hymn  and  others  are 
published  in  Mrs.  Currier's  book  "O  Sing  Unto  the 
Lord,"  for  which  I  have  used  also  the  pseudonyms, 
Zemira  Wallace  and  C.  U. 

"Faith"  was  written  in  response  to  Mrs.  Currier's 
request  to  bring  in  all  the  Scripture  I  could  bearing  on 
that  subject.  "I'm  Going  Home  to  Father's  House" 
was  written  and  inscribed  to  Dr.  Dixon  after  hearing 
one  of  his  sermons  about  the  Father's  house.  He  had 
said  that  this  world  was  not  his  home;  that  his  home 
was  where  the  Father  is;  and  that  his  anchor  was  not 
cast  but  was  lifted  while  he  was  sailing  out  to  Father's 
house. 

"The  anchor  I  have  lifted  now; 

My  sails  are  floating  free, 
Amid  the  breeze  that  wafts  my  soul 

Beyond  Life's  troubled  sea. 
I'm  going  where  my  Lord  has  gone, 

A  mansion  to  prepare, 
Where  I  through  all  eternity, 

May  dwell  in  glory  there." 


190  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


A  little  child,  between  four  and  five  years  of  age, 
on  retiring  knelt  down  to  say  her  evening  prayer  and 
was  heard  to  say, 

"Dear  Jesus,  I  thank  you  for  being  punished  instead 
of  me."  She  had  heard  her  mother  talking  of  Jesus 
taking  our  place.  This  incident  inspired  the  hymn, 
"Instead  of  Me." 

"Good  news  from  the  gospel  is  sounding  today; 
I  haste  to  receive  it,  how  can  I  delay? 
It  tells  me  from  bondage  my  soul  may  be  free, 
Through  Jesus  who  suffered  instead  of  me." 

When  informed  of  the  death  of  a  dear  friend  of  Mrs. 
Currier's  and  mine  we  sat  down  and  wept  together, 
and  these  words  flowed  from  my  heart, 

"Only  a  little  while  pilgrims  below, 
Then  to  our  Fatherland  home  we  shall  go." 

When  I  repeated  the  hymn  to  Mrs.  Currier,  she  im- 
mediately sang  it  to  the  music  coming  from  her  heart 
as  the  words  did  from  mine.  Both  words  and  melody 
were  written  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

After  Mrs.  Currier's  consecration  she  was  engaged 
to  sing  for  six  months  in  religious  meetings  in  New  York 
City;  and  in  making  the  engagement  had  told  them  that 
she  only  sang  gospel  songs.  They  said  that  was  enough, 
but  on  one  occasion  they  asked  her  to  sing  at  a  certain 
large  meeting  something  on  the  secular  order,  and  when 
she  reminded  them  of  the  agreement  they  asked  her  to 
stretch  her  conscience  a  little  and  think  of  it  over  night. 


INCIDENTS  OF   HYMNS  191 

She  prayed  for  guidance  and  in  the  morning  on  taking 
out  some  music  that  had  been  packed  away  the  first 
piece  that  struck  her  eye  was  "I  Cannot  Sing  the  Old 
Songs."  She  told  me  of  the  circumstance,  and  asked 
me  to  write  a  hymn  telling  why  she  could  not  sing  the 
old  songs.     The  result  was  "A  New  Song": 

"I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs, 

For  me  their  charm  is  o'er, 
My  earthly  harp  is  laid  aside, 

I  wake  its  chords  no  more. 
The  precious  blood  of  Christ  my  Lord, 

Has  cleansed  and  made  me  free; 
And  taught  my  heart  a  new  song, 

Of  His  great  love  to  me." 

During  a  series  of  meetings  in  Baltimore  one  evening 
Dr.  Gilman  of  Johns  Hopkins  University  called  to  ask 
Mrs.  Currier  to  sing  at  a  service  where  workers  of  many 
denominations  and  creeds  were  assembled.  There  were 
Jews,  Romanists,  and  different  Protestant  churches 
represented.  She  was  asked  for  a  hymn  that  would 
bring  all  closer  together  in  brotherly  love,  and  spur  them 
on  to  greater  work.  No  hymn  could  be  found  that 
fitted  the  case  exactly,  at  least  none  in  which  so  many 
creeds  could  join;  and  so  at  her  request  was  written 
"Let  Him  be  All  in  All." 

"From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
Before  our  God  above, 
We  meet  to  join  our  hearts  and  hands 
In  one  great  work  of  love. 


192  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"Then  let  us  in  our  Father's  name, 
With  holy  reverence  call, 
Forgetting  creed,  forgetting  self, 
Let  Him  be  'all  in  all'." 

A  very  dear  friend,  having  passed  through  many 
severe  trials,  persecutions  and  sorrows,  came  to  me 
and  telling  me  of  them  said, 

" God  has  led  me  all  the  way  and  has  given  me  'songs 
in  the  night. ' "  With  the  incident  still  fresh  in  my  mind 
I  wrote  the  hymn  entitled,  "  God  Leadeth :" 

"In  paths  that  His  wisdom  and  goodness  prepare, 
God  leadeth  His  children  along; 
For  He  is  our  keeper  and  safe  in  His  care, 
God  leadeth  His  children  along; 
Some  through  the  water,  some  through  the  flame, 
Some  through  deep  sorrow,  but  praised  be  His  name, 
Where'er  He  leadeth,  He  giveth  a  song, 
In  the  night  season,  and  all  the  day  long." 

"I  See  the  Light"  has  a  beautiful  history.  A  Boston 
harbor  pilot,  as  he  lay  dying,  looked  up  and  said  to  those 
who  watched  by  his  bedside, 

"I  see  the  light."  Supposing  that  he  was  dreaming 
of  familiar  lights  in  the  harbor,  they  asked, 

"What  light?  Boston  Light?" 

"No"  he  replied. 

"•Highland  Light?" 

"No." 

"Minot  Light?"    The  old  pilot  answered, 


INCIDENTS   OF   HYMNS  103 

"I  see  the  Light  of  Glory,  now  let  the  anchor  go." 
With  these  words  his  spirit  passed  over  the  bar,  as  his 
vessel  had  passed  across  the  harbor-bar  so  many  times, 
and  there  was  no  moaning  for  him  since  his  spirit  was 
at  rest. 

"I  see  the  Light,  'tis  coming, 
It  breaks  upon  my  soul; 
It  streams  above  the  tempest, 
And  ocean  waves  that  roll. 

"From  skies  with  clouds  o'er  shadowed, 
The  mist  dissolves  away; 
I  see  the  Light  that  leadeth, 
To  everlasting  day. 

'With  joy  no  words  can  utter, 

My  heart  is  all  aglow, 
I  see  the  Light  of  Glory, 
Now  let  the  anchor  go." 

Among  the  many  interesting  letters,  received  of  late, 
I  select  two  or  three  that  bear  more  directly  upon  the 
story  of  my  life.  From  England  during  an  evangelistic 
tour  in  the  summer  of  1900,  Mr.  Sankey  wrote: 

"Dear  Fanny: 

"You  are  not  forgotten  and  your  name  is  often 
mentioned  in  connection  with  'Saved  by  Grace'  in  my 
sen-ices.  We  are  keeping  well  and  are  just  starting  for 
Leeds,  York,  Sunderland,  Berwick,  Newcastle  and  Edin- 
burgh, where  large  halls  have  been  taken  for  our  meetings. 


194  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

I  quoted  your  beautiful  lines  of  poetry  recently  in  Bir- 
mingham: 

1  Oh,  for  an  angel's  harp  to  tell 
How  much  I  love  Thee  and  how  well!' 

They  are  fine  and  some  of  our  mutual  friends  have 
written  them  down  in  their  Bibles.  I  hope  you  are  still 
as  bright  as  a  dollar,  as  you  say." 

''Sincerely  yours. 

"Ira  D.  Sankey." 

I  have  spoken  already  of  Imogene  Hart,  one  of  my 
pupils  in  the  Institution  and  a  life-long  friend.  For 
a  recent  birthday  she  sent  me  the  following  greetings: 

"Dear  Fanny: 

"lam  the  Imogene  Hart  who  was  one  of  your 
schoolmates  at  the  Institution  for  the  Blind  in  1839. 
You  were  appointed  to  prepare  me  to  join  several  classes 
that  were  well  advanced  in  their  studies.  You  taught 
me  grammar,  geography,  and  knitting.  You  also  labored 
very  hard  to  teach  me  to  sing  'second'  in  the  hymn 
4  Come  Ye  Disconsolate.'  I  think  you  must  have  been 
greatly  discouraged  to  hear  my  voice  join  the  first  sopranos 
after  all  your  work  to  make  me  learn  to  sing  alto. 

"I  see  by  the  'Tribune'  that  you  are  now  eighty-five 
years  old;  and  I  congratulate  you  most  heartily  for  the 
great  good  which  you  have  all  your  life  been  able  to 
accomplish  through  your  beautiful  hymns  and  carols — 
even  writing  up  to  this  present  day;  and  it  makes  me 


INCIDENTS  OF  HYMNS  195 

happy  to  know  that  you  have  always  enjoyed  good 
health  and  that  you  are  still  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  life. 

"  I  was  with  you  at  the  Institution  less  than  three 
years,  after  which  I  developed  a  good  voice  and  some 
musical  ability.  I  am  still  able  to  sing  a  little  although 
I  shall  be  eighty  years  of  age  the  first  of  next  June. 
Sometimes  I  try  my  powers  at  composition;  and  I  am 
going  to  send  you  some  specimens  of  it.  The  'Polka 
Song  '  you  must  get  some  of  your  young  lady  friends  to 
sing  for  you,  so  that  you  may  judge  that  I  keep  up  my 
good  spirits. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  Imogene  Hart." 
"Mt.  Vernon,  N.  Y., 

Jan.  14,  1901." 

"Dear  Friend  of  the  Olden  Time: 

"Most  of  our  colleagues  and  associates  of  the 
forties  and  fifties  have  crossed  the  river;  but,  for  some 
reason,  the  ferryman  has  left  you  and  me  on  this  side. 
We  can  count  on  our  fingers  nearly  all  of  our  friends 
now  living,  who  were  with  us  at  the  Institution  for  the 
Blind  from  1849  to  1854.  With  the  exception  of  the 
years  just  named  I  was  a  school  master  from  the  second 
Monday  in  November,  1835,  to  the  10th  of  September 
last;  and  as  I  was  teaching  more  or  less  while  in  the 
Institution,  I  claim  to  have  been  a  teacher  for  sixty-four 
years  and  ten  months. 

"Since  I  retired  last  September,  to  occupy  my  time, 
which  for  a  while,  'hung  heavy  on  my  hands,'  I  began 


196  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

to  look  over  my  old  manuscripts  and  I  will  copy  a  few 
lines  from  my  diary,  which  was  kept  during  those  years. 
"  'Nov.  21, 1850:  Last  evening  one  of  our  number  was 
converted  at  the  18th  Street  Church ;  and  another  (Fanny 
Crosby)  at  the  30th  Street.  I  wish  all  of  our  family 
were  Christians;  and  then  we  would  be  a  happy  family.' 
"Do  you  remember  that  in  1851  a  man  came  to  the 
Institution  to  get  you  to  write  for  a  new  weekly  paper,  to 
be  called  '  The  Saturday  Emporium?'  You  promised 
to  write  for  him  on  the  condition  that  I  should  reply  to 
you  in  the  next  number.  You  wrote  several  poems, 
addressing  me  as  Bertram,  and  signing  yourself '  Eurrilla.' 
I  have  in  manuscript  now  my  answer  to  two  of  your 
poetic  questions;  one  was 

'Where  shall  the  wounded  spirit  rest?' 

But  I  can  only  remember  the  last  two  lines  of  another 
question,  and  none  of  the  one  to  which  these  were  part 
of  the  answer.  To  this  second  question,  'What  is  earth's 
purest  gem?'  I  wrote  sixteen  four-line  stanzas;  and 
after  sending  you  on  a  number  of  useless  journeys,  I 
concluded  thus: 

'Forgiveness  is  the  brightest  pearl, 
In  all  earth's  diadem.' 

"  Wishing  you  long  years  more,  health  and  happiness, 
lam, 

"Your  life-long  friend, 

"  T.  D.  Camp." 


INCIDENTS   OF   HYMNS  197 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  include  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Faddoul  Moghabghab,  the  real  "Syrian  Guest,"  whose 
beautiful  story  has  been  written  by  Mr.  Amos  R.  Wells. 

11  Miss  Fanny  Crosby, 

44  Most  beloved  sister  in  Christ: 

44 1  am  writing  this  letter  with  my  Syrian  pen, 
and  must  therefore  put  the  Syrian  custom  into  practice  on 
such  an  occasion  like  this, — Easter  Week,  4  Jesus 
Christ  is  Risen';  4Is  risen  indeed.'  We  use  these  terms 
in  Syria  in  place  of  your  4Good  morning,'  or  4Good 
evening,'  etc.,  especially  on  Sunday,  Easter-day;  and 
wheresoever  we  go  or  with  whomever  we  speak  the  first 
salutation  is  4  Jesus  Christ  is  risen  today,'  and  the  reply 
4  Is  risen  indeed.' 

44  Sister,  though  you  are  still  in  the  body  on  this  earth, 
you  are  always  quoting  the  language  of  Heaven  above; 
and  your  thoughts  are  continually  discovering  new 
regions  beyond  the  river.  Oh,  I  imagine  how  happy 
you  always  feel;  and  I  hope  to  have  another  chance  of 
meeting  you  again  upon  this  earth,  because  I  always 
gain  new  inspiration  from  those  whose  mansions  are 
already  prepared  by  the  4  Shepherd  of  the  Sheep ' ;  but  I 
am  sure,  if  we  cannot  meet  each  other  in  this  world,  we 
shall  meet  in  Heaven. 

44  I  remain,  yours  in  Christ, 

44  Faddoul  Moghabghab/' 


THE  BLOOD-WASHED   THRONG. 


Words  and  music  composed  when  eighty-six  years  old. 
Fanny  J.  Crosby.  Fanny  J.  Crosby. 


1.  Thereis  a  blood-wash'dmul-titude,  A     mighty     ar-mystrong;The 

2.  That  precious  name  their  guiding  star.Its  beams  will  o'er  them  cast,  And 

3.  March  on  I O  blood-wash'd  multitude,  For  lo  I  the  hour  draws  nigh, When 


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Lord  of  hosts  their  righteousness,Re  -  deeming  love  their  song. They 
thro'  its  pow'r  their  trust-ing  souls  Shall  o-  ver-comeat    last.  The 
we   shall  hail  the   King  of  kings  Tri-umphant  in    the  sky.  When 


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follow  Christ  whose  name  they  bear ,To  yon-  der  portals  bright,  Where 
glo  -  ry-cloud  will  bring  them  safe  To   yon  -der  palace  bright,  Where 
songs  of  praise  to    Him   we  love,Shall  fill   the  courts  of  light,  And 


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He  has  said  His  faith -ful  ones  Shall  walk  with  Him  in  white, 
they  shall  see  Him  eye  to  eye  And  walk  with  Him  in  white, 
they  that   o  -  ver  -come  the  world,Shall  walk  with  Him  in   white. 


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Copyright,  1906,  by  M.  U.  Currier. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  FEW  TRIBUTES 

AT  the  suggestion  of  several  friends,  I  have 
finally  concluded  to  add  here  a  few  of  the 
tributes  in  song  that  kindred  spirits  have 
sent  to  me  on  various  occasions.  Between 
them  and  myself  there  has  been  a  firm  bond  of  sympathy 
and  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  kind  words  exchanged 
on  birthdays  and  at  Christmas  time.  I  do  not  vouch 
ior  all  of  the  things  that  these  admiring  and  indulgent 
friends  have  said  about  me;  I  can  only  wish  that  all  their 
words  of  praise  were  indeed  well  founded. 

The  first  of  these  tributes  was  sent  to  me  by  a  dear 
lady  over  the  sea,  whose  name  and  sweet  hymns  have 
long  been  well  known  to  our  American  people,  Miss 
Frances  Ridley  Havergal.  She  and  William  F.  Shenvin 
corresponded  regularly  for  several  years ;  and  in  one  of 
her  letters  to  my  friend  she  inquired  after  "  Fanny 
Crosby."  Mr.  Sherwin,  in  deference  to  my  aversion 
to  being  called  "the  blind  hymn- writer,"  replied,  "She 
is  a  blind  lady,  whose  heart  can  see  splendidly  in  the 
sunshine  of  God's  love."  Miss  Havergal  was  deeply 
touched  by  this  reply,  and  immediately  wrote  me  a  poem, 
which  for  thirty  years  has  been  a  gracious  benediction 
to  me.  It  is  in  grateful  remembrance  of  the  dear  singer, 
who  took  a  portion  of  her  busy  hours  to  write  me  from 

199 


200  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

the  depths  of  her  heart  that  I  quote  a  part  of  her  poem 

here: 

"Sweet  blind  singer  over  the  sea, 
Tuneful  and  jubilant,  how  can  it  be, 
That  the  songs  of  gladness,  which  float  so  far, 
As  if  they  fell  from  an  evening  star, 
Are  the  notes  of  one  who  may  never  see 
'Visible  music1  of  flower  and  tree. 

How  can  she  sing  in  the  dark  like  this? 
What  is  her  fountain  of  light  and  bliss? 

Her  heart  can  see,  her  heart  can  see! 
Well  may  she  sing  so  joyously! 
For  the  King  Himself,  in  His  tender  grace, 
Hath  shown  her  the  brightness  of  His  face; 

Dear  blind  sister  over  the  sea! 

An  English  heart  goes  forth  to  thee. 

We  are  linked  by  a  cable  of  faith  and  song, 

Flashing  bright  sympathy  swift  along; 

One  in  the  East  and  one  in  the  West, 

Singing  for  Him  whom  our  souls  love  best, 

Sister!  what  will  our  meeting  be, 

When  our  hearts  shall  sing  and  our  eyes  shall  see?" 

From  the  time  that  I  received  the  poem,  from  which 
I  have  just  quoted,  until  the  death  of  the  gifted  English 


A  FEW  TRIBUTES  201 

singer,  seven  years  afterward,  we  frequently  exchanged 
letters;  and  when  "Bells  at  Evening"  was  published 
in  1897  I  asked  that  her  poem  entire  be  included  among 
my  own  works  as  a  token  of  my  appreciation  of  Miss 
Havergal's  kindness. 

On   my  birthday,  March  24,    1893,   Ira  D.  Sankey 
sent  me  the  following  beautiful  poem : 

"O  friend  beloved,  with  joy  again 
We  hail  thy  natal  day, 
Which  brings  you  one  year  nearer  home, 
Rejoicing  on  the  way. 

"  How  fast  the  years  are  rolling  on — 
Wre  cannot  stay  their  flight; 
The  summer  sun  is  going  down, 
And  soon  will  come  the  night. 

"  But  you,  dear  friend,  need  fear  no  ill; 
Your  path  shines  bright  and  clear; 
You  know  the  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life, 
To  you  He's  ever  near. 

"  And  when  you  pass  from  time  away 
To  meet  your  Lord  and  King, 
In  heaven  you'll  meet  ten  thousand  souls, 
That  you  have  taught  to  sing. 

u  A  few  more  years  to  sing  the  song 
Of  our  Redeemer's  love; 
Then  by  His  grace  both  you  and  I 
Shall  sing  His  praise  above." 


SOS  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

h  mm 

TO  FANNY 

"The  sun  of  life  will  darken, 

The  voice  of  song  will  cease, 
The  ear  to  silence  harken, 

The  soul  lie  down  in  peace, — 
But  with  the  trumpet's  sounding, 
Ten  thousand  suns  will  glow, 
And  endless  hymns  abounding 
Like  streams  of  love  will  flow." 

Robert  Lowry. 
March  24,  1897 

For  the  last  twenty  years,  or  more,  Mr.  Hubert  P. 
Main  has  sent  me  annually  a  poem  for  my  birthday. 
Many  of  them  were  written  in  a  humorous,  or  cheerful 
vein,  like  the  following: — 

"O  Fanny,  you're  the  worstest  one, 
As  ever  yet  I've  knew, 
You  ask  for  things  inopportune, 
You  du,  you  know  you  du! 

"It's  every  year  along  in  March, 
When  tree-toads  'gin  to  roam, 
You  set  me  wilder  than  a  hawk 
A  howlin'  for  a  pome. 

"I'm  pestered,  bothered,  sick  to  death, 
I  have  so  much  tu  du 
On  books,  and  services,  and  sich: — 
I  hev  no  time  for  you. 


A  FEW  TRIBUTES  303 

"Still  March  the  twenty-four  comes  round, 
In  spite  of  earth  or  heaven; 
And  you  keep  coming  also,  tew, 
For  now  you're  seventy-seven." 

"Lord  bless  you,  Fanny;  this  I'll  say 
Since  while  my  mill  is  runnin', 
I'm  in  dead  earnest,  too,  and  pray 
You  will  not  think  me  funnin'." 

One  of  these  annual  poems  was  addressed  in  the 
following  unique  lines: 

"To  Fanny  Crosby,  with  a  J, 
A  poem  for  her  natal  day; 
Be  gentle  with  it,  postman,  dear, 
You  only  cart  it  once  a  year; 
But  hurry,  hurry,  please  'cut  sticks/ 
And  leave  at  Ninth  Street,  Seventy-six." 

On  March  24,  1887,  William  J.  Kirkpatrick  wrote: 

"  Dear  Fanny,  I  would  send  a  line 
Of  warm  congratulation; 
And  join  the  many  friends  that  hail 
Your  birthday  celebration. 

"To  bless  and  cheer  our  rising  race 
Writh  songs  of  exultation, 
O,  may  your  useful  life  be  spared 
Another  generation." 


£04  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


On  my  eighty-third  birthday,  in  March,  1903,  Dr. 
John  Gaylord  Davenport  of  Waterbury  sent  me  the 
following  beautiful  sonnet: 

"  Dear  saint  of  God,  another  year  has  thrown 
Its  light  and  shade  along  thine  earthly  way, 
And  thou  art  lifting  still  thy  tuneful  lay 
And  waking  echoes  still  in  souls  unknown! 
How  wondrously  that  melody  has  grown, 
Recalling  those  whose  feet  have  gone  astray 
And  guiding  toward  the  realms  of  perfect  day 
Those  whom  the  gracious  Lord  has  made  His  own. 
Sing  on,  dear  friend !    Long  teach  us  how  to  raise 
The  note  of  aspiration  and  of  love; 
Chanting  the  honors  of  our  glorious  King, 
Till  all  the  world  be  jubilant  with  praise, 
And  thine  own  music,  keyed  to  bliss  above, 
In  every  tongue  of  earth  shall  grandly  ring." 

During  my  summer  visits  at  Assembly  Park,  New 
York,  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  a  number  of 
kindered  spirits  of  note,  among  them  Edmund  Vance 
Cook,  Miss  Eliza  E.  Hewitt  and  the  late  Alton  Lindsay. 
The  latter  was  a  young  man  of  abundant  promise,  but 
was  taken  from  his  host  of  friends  by  an  early  death. 
Mr.  Cook  is  still  young  and  composing  those  poetic  strains 
that  have  cheered  the  hearts  of  so  many.  Miss  Hewitt 
and  I  began  to  correspond  as  early  as  1891,  and  at  several 
birthdays  she  has  written  sweet  poems  for  the  informal 
receptions  that  are  annually  held  at  the  office  of  Biglow 


A   FEW   TRIBUTES  205 

and  Main  in  New  York.     In  March,   1905,  she  sent 
the  following: 

"The  friends  are  forming  a  garland, 
Fragrant  and  lovely  and  sweet, 
The  roses  and  lilacs  of  friendship, 
To  lay  at  our  loved  one's  feet; 

"  And  while  the  fair  chaplet  they're  twining, 
May  I  bring  a  little  flower, 
A  forget-me-not,  meek  and  lowly, 
To  add  to  the  joys  of  the  hour  ? 

"  This  love-wreath  is  for  our  dear  'Fanny,* 
Whose  heart  is  so  young  and  so  true, 
No  wonder  her  songs,  freely  gushing, 
Are  as  fresh  as  the  morning  dew! 

"  They  sparkle  with  Spring's  happy  sunshine, 
They  ripple  like  streams  of  delight, 
They  flow  from  the  rocks  of  the  mountain, 
They  touch  us  with  love's  tender  might. 

"  Because  she  sings  of  her  Saviour, 
And  His  spirit  tunes  her  lyre, 
Her  work  shall  go  on  forever, 

After  she  has  been  called  up  higher. 

"  So  we'll  gather  round  our  'Fanny,' 
With  smiles  and  greetings  sincere; 
May  she  have  just  the  sweetest  birthday 
She  has  had  for  many  a  year. 


toe  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"  Then  we'll  all  be  happy  with  her, 
And  thank  the  dear  Lord  above, 
For  sending  us  one  of  His  angels 
To  sing  to  us  of  His  love." 

Mr.  Cook  wrote  in  1899: 

''Your  brow  is  faded,  poet,  but  we  do  not  quarrel 
With  Time,  since  Time  himself  has  brought 
His  recompense  to  you, — the  fadeless  laurel 
To  crown  your  fadeless  thought. 

"  Your  eyes  are  dark,  O  sister,  but  your  inner  vision 
Is  keener  than  a  merely  mortal  sight; 
Your  poem  of  life  has  suffered  no  illusion, 
For  all  your  life  is  light. 

"  Your  days  are  many,  singer,  but  their  goodly  number 
Has  made  you  ever  young, 
Years  are  not  years  to  you,  nor  can  they  cumber 
The  song  your  soul  has  sung." 

Mr.  John  R.  Clements,  who  has  written  many  sweet 
hymns,  after  the  publication  of  my  volume,  "Bells  at 
Evening,"  in  1897,  sent  me  the  following  delightful  lines: 

"Let  chime  again  those  'Bells  at  Evening,' 
Sounding  rich  and  clear; 
The  music  soothes  and  sweetly  thrills, 
In  harmonies  so  dear. 


A  FEW  TRIBUTES  S07 

"We  fondly  think  of  her  who  plays 
Deftly  these  even  chimes, 
And  breathe  a  wish  for  length  of  days, 
Good  health  and  many  rhymes." 

At  one  of  the  Round  Table  mornings  during  my  stay 
at  Assembly  Park  in  1899  Alton  Lindsay  recited  the  poem 
that  is  printed  here  in  grateful  remembrance  of  him: 

"O  sweet-voiced  singer  of  immortal  songs, 
Whose  harmonies  divine  inspire  the  world 
To  nobler  living  and  a  loftier  faith, 
Arousing  men  to  seek  God's  highest  truth, 
To  praise  His  name  and  trust  His  promises; 
And  feel  the  Christ-love  glow  within  the  heart,— 
O,  gentle  singer,  lean  thy  gracious  head 
And  let  me  whisper  low,  as  friend  to  friend, 
A  loving  secret  that  I  cannot  keep. 
Thy  face,  which  mirror  never  shows  to  thee, 
Itself  is  mirror  of  thy  holy  life, 
Reflecting  all  the  wealth  of  noble  thought, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  thy  purity. 
The  same  glad  joy  which  fills  thy  rapturous  verse 
Is  like  a  flood  of  sunlight  on  thy  brow, 
Each  hymn's  calm  message  of  perpetual  trust 
Is  shining  on  thy  placid  contenance, 
And  all  the  hope  of  thy  great  mother-heart 
Throbs  ever  in  thy  sweet  and  tender  voice. 
Wre  thank  our  Heavenly  Father  for  the  boon 
He  gave  to  us  in  giving  thee  thy  gift, — 


08  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Thy  gift  of  song  which  hath  enriched  the  world. 
Nor  for  the  boon  alone  our  praise  we  give, 
For,  like  the  magi,  we  behold  a  star, 
Which  guides  us  nearer  to  the  Saviour's  side, 
A  radiant  star — thy  pure,  unselfish  life." 

A  TRIBUTE 

"  This  year  of  nineteen  hundred  three 
My  muse  comes  nestling  close  to  me, 
And  breathes  these  words  quite  tenderly: 
'Our  Fanny  dear  is  eighty-three.' 
So  many  years  of  usefulness! 
So  many  years  the  world  to  bless! 
So  many  years  with  pen  and  voice, 
To  make  earth's  weary  ones  rejoice! 

"  Oh,  what  a  blessed  life  is  here — 
The  thought  with  love  my  bosom  stirs; 
Unselfish,  patient,  loving,  kind, 
And  beautiful  in  heart  and  mind; 
We  read  within  the  sacred  Word: 
'Blessed  are  those  who  fear  the  Lord,' 
They  strength  shall  gain ;  from  day  to  day 
On  eagle's  wings  shall  soar  away. 

11  Sweet  blessings  on  our  Fanny's  head, 
May  paths  be  smooth  where  she  shall  tread; 
Of  life's  best  joys  may  she  have  plenty, 
Who  came  to  us  in  eighteen- twenty! 


A  FEW  TRIBUTES  209 

"And  may  we  meet  at  last  in  glory, 
Together  sing  the  dear  old  story, 
That  here  we  spread  with  best  endeavor, 
Hoping  some  precious  sheaves  to  gather." 

Harriet  E.  Jones. 

TO  MISS  FANNY  J.  CROSBY 

(On  her  eighty-fifth  birthday) 

'•Unselfish  singer  of  our  heart's  dear  songs, 
We  pay  to  thee  our  tribute  and  our  love. 
Where  man  has  wandered  into  grievous  wrongs 
Thy  heart  has  gone,  so  like  the  Heart  above! 

"O  gracious  singer,  with  the  youthful  years, 
Thy  lays  have  cheered  in  palace  and  in  cot, 
And  now  in  memory's  garden-plot  appears 
The  fair  and  verdant  flower  forget-me-not! 

"Thy  songs  are  planted  in  the  Church's  heart 
To  grow  and  bring  forth  fruit  an  hundred  fold: 
So  may  we  also  do  our  humble  part 
To  honor  thee,  thou  rarest  heart  of  gold!" 

H.  Adelbert  White. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS 

DURING  the  last  fifty  years  I  have  written 
a  great  many  poems  that  might  be  called 
autobiographical.  In  the  truest  sense  they 
record  my  own  life  history,  because  the 
most  of  them  express  some  deep  emotion ;  or  recall  some 
event  in  the  life  of  my  dearest  friends;  or  revive  some 
tender  thought  that  I  have  not  wished  to  pass  unnoticed 
by  those  who  do  not  know  me  so  veil.  A  number  of 
them  have  been  chosen  for  this  book,  not  so  much  because 
of  their  literary  merit,  as  because  of  the  sentiments  that 
they  perpetuate.  A  few  of  them  have  been  included  in 
spite  of  the  protests  of  modest  souls  whose  worth  happens 
therein  to  be  duly  recognized,  but  this  is  only  one  of  the 
inadequate  means  that  I  have  of  expressing  my  gratitude 
and  devotion  to  those  who  have  paid  me  innumerable 
and  tender  attentions  in  times  past  and  present. 

Lines  to  My  Mother 
On  My  Birthday 

My  birthday  eve  is  gone,  mother, 

And  didst  thou  think  of  me  ? 
Each  moment  while  I  counted  o'er 

My  thoughts  were  all  on  thee, 
210 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  811 

And  oft  I  wished  thee  here,  mother, 

Our  social  group  to  join ; 
For  I  long  to  clasp  thine  hand,  mother, 

And  in  thy  arms  recline. 

My  birthday  eve  is  gone,  mother, 

The  future  who  can  know  ? 
Oh,  will  my  buoyant  heart,  as  now, 

With  gladness  still  o'erflow  ? 

Or  will  its  trembling  strings,  mother, 

Speak  but  a  mournful  tone  ? 
And  I,  of  all  I  love  bereft, 

Weep  wretched  and  alone  ? 

My  birthday  eve  is  gone,  mother, 

Friends  gather  round  me  now, 
And  they  are  sad,  whene'er  they  mark 

A  shadow  on  my  brow. 

They  sing  my  favorite  lays,  mother, 

And  many  an  hour  beguile; 
For  they  are  dear  as  life  to  me, — 

I  live  but  in  their  smile. 
185a 


212  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

To  My  Sister,  Mrs.  Julia  Athington 
(On  the  twentieth  anniversary  of  her  marriage) 

Tell  me,  sister,  does  your  memory 

Touch  its  lyre  and  murmur  low 
How  your  heart  of  joy  was  dreaming, 

Dreaming  twenty  years  ago? 
And  the  lovely  wing  of  fancy, 

With  your  smile  of  beauty  played, 
While  you  stood  before  the  altar 

In  your  bridal  robe  arrayed  ? 

And  to  him  who  stood  beside  you, 

All  your  fondest  hopes  were  given, 
Vows  were  breathed  and  words  were  spoken, 

Read  by  seraph  eyes  in  Heaven  ? 
You  have  trod  life's  vale  together, 

You  have  shared  its  good  and  ill, 
Is  your  promise  yet  unbroken, — 

Do  you  hold  it  sacred  still? 

Twenty  years,  and  oh,  how  lightly, 

Time  has  touched  you  as  he  passed, 
Hardly  do  you  feel  his  autumn: 

It  has  brought  no  chilly  blast. 
Scarce  a  summer  leaf  has  withered, 

Scarce  a  silver  thread  appears; 
Few  the  traces  age  has  left  you, 

In  the  lapse  of  twenty  years. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  213 

Sister,  brother,  I  am  with  you, 

On  your  anniversary  day, 
With  you  in  my  thoughts  and  feelings, 

Wafted  to  your  home  away. 
While  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow 

Of  the  past  you  both  review, 
Pledge  again  your  hearts'  affection, 

And  begin  your  lives  anew. 

Look  to  Him  for  strength  and  guidance, 

Who  alone  your  souls  can  bless, 
Ask  His  Spirit  to  be  with  you, 

Trust  His  love  and  faithfulness, 
O,  remember,  life  is  fleeting, 

Let  your  future  days  be  given 
To  an  earnest,  ardent  seeking, 

For  a  home  and  rest  in  Heaven! 


1878 


Reuben  B.  Currier  and  Mary  E.  Upham 
(On  their  Wedding  Day) 

It  is  done,  the  words  are  spoken, 
WTords  that  bind  you  heart  to  heart; 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  joined  together 
Neither  life  nor  death  can  part. 

Hope  and  friendship,  joy  and  sunshine 

Hail  you  both  on  every  side, 
They  are  singing  happy  greeting 

To  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 


«14  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

One  in  spirit,  mind  and  purpose, 

You  have  loved  each  other  long, 
You  have  gathered  souls  for  Jesus . 

By  your  counsel  and  your  song. 

Unto  Him  we  now  commend  you, 

Unto  Him  whose  name  is  Love; 
May  the  glory  of  His  presence 

Rest  upon  you  from  above. 

Father,  Saviour,  Holy  Spirit 
Bless  these  wedded  souls  we  pray; 

Make  their  future  bright  and  cloudless 
As  a  rosy,  summer  day. 

And  when  evening  shadows  gather, 
When  their  harvest  work  is  done, 

May  they  both  go  home  rejoicing 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Sept.  7,  1904 

Dedication  of  the  Institution  Chapel 

Oh,  Thou  omniscient,  omnipresent  Lord! 

Invisible,  eternal  God  of  all! 
The  vast  creation  trembles  at  Thy  word, 

And  at  Thy  footstool  nations  prostrate  fall. 

Thy  throne  is  fixed  above  the  starry  frame; 

Yet  Thou  in  earthly  temples  lov'st  to  dwell; 
The  humble  spirit  thou  wilt  not  disdain, 

The  wounded  heart  Thy  balm  divine  dost  heaL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  215 

Father,  we  humbly  supplicate  Thy  grace, 
May  Thy  benignant  smile  on  us  be  given, 

Thy  blessing  rest  upon  this  sacred  place, 
Thine  earthly  house,  we  trust,  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Here  will  we  listen  to  Thy  holy  word; 

Light  on  our  path,  thus,  may  its  precepts  be; 
Here  shall  the  voice  of  praise  and  prayer  be  heard,— 

Ourselves,  our  all,  we  dedicate  to  Thee. 
1841 

On  a  Child  Kneeling 

His  little  hands  were  meekly  clasped, 

And  to  that  cheek  so  fair, 
A  ringlet  carelessly  had  strayed, 

And  lightly  lingered  there. 

Beneath  those  silken  lids  that  dropped, 

Were  eyes  serenely  bright; 
An  infant  kneels,  and  angels  gaze 

With  rapture  at  the  sight. 

Well  may  they  strike  their  golden  harps, 

And  swell  their  songs  of  praise; 
An  infant  kneels  in  artless  strains 

Its  feeble  voice  to  raise. 

Oh,  what  a  lesson!  if  a  child 

So  innocent  must  kneel, 
Should  not  our  sinful  time-seared  hearts 

A  deep  contrition  feel? 


184a 


216  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 


How  often  from  a  little  child 

May  we  a  lesson  learn! 
Remind  us  of  our  wanderings, 

And  urged  to  quick  return. 

The  Wish 

I  ask— but  not  the  glittering  pomp— 

Of  wealth  and  pageantry; 
Nor  splendid  dome:  a  rural  cot 

My  domicile  shall  be. 

'Tis  not  to  mingle  with  the  gay, 

The  opulent,  and  proud; 
Tis  not  to  court  the  flattering  smile 

Of  an  admiring  crowd. 

I  ask  a  heart — a  faithful  heart — 

Congenial  with  mine  own, 
Whose  deep,  unchanging  love  shall  burn 

For  me,  and  me  alone : 

A  heart  in  sorrow's  cheerless  hour 

To  soften  every  care; 
To  taste  with  me  the  sweets  of  life, 

And  all  its  ills  to  share. 

Thus  linked  by  friendship's  golden  chain, 
Ah,  who  more  blessed  than  we; 

Unruffled  as  the  pearly  stream 
Our  halcyon  days  would  be. 


184a 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  217 

I'll  Think  of  Thee 
(Words  and  Music) 

I'll  think  of  thee  at  that  soft  hour, 
When  fade  the  parting  hues  of  day; 

And  on  each  grove  and  woodland  bower 
The  balmy  gales  of  summer  play. 

WTien  night  around  her  mantle  throws, 
And  stars  illume  the  deep  blue  sea, 

When  wearied  nature  seeks  repose, 
Oh,  then,  I'll  dream,  I'll  dream  of  thee. 

WTien  from  the  East  the  morning  breaks; 

And  night's  dark  shadows  glide  away; 
When  Nature  from  her  slumber  wakes 

To  hail  with  joy  the  opening  day. 

When  sweetly  bursting  on  the  ear, 

The  tuneful  warbler's  note  of  glee, 
I'll  fondly  fancy  thou  art  near 
To  touch  the  light  guitar  for  me. 
1842 

An  Address 
(Recited  while  on  the  tour  through  New  York,  1843) 

The  deep  blue  sky,  serenely  light, 

On  which  your  eyes  with  rapture  gaze; 

Where  stars  unveil  their  mellow  bright, 
And  God  His  wondrous  power  displays; 


318  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

The  gushing  fount,  whose  glassy  breast, 

Reflects  the  parting  hues  of  day, 
Nature  in  robes  of  verdure  drest, 

The  opening  buds,  the  flowerets  gay; 

The  lofty  hills,  the  greenwood  bowers, — 
Though  fair  these  rural  scenes  appear, 

On  them  to  gaze  must  ne'er  be  ours: 
These  orbs,  alas!  they  cannot  cheer. 

But,  yet,  instruction's  nobler  light, 

Sheds  on  our  mental  eye  its  ray; 
We  hail  its  beams  with  new  delight, 

And  bid  each  gloomy  thought  away. 

To  us  the  Lord  kind  friends  has  given, 
Whose  names  we  ever  shall  revere, 

Recorded  in  the  book  of  heaven, 
Shall  their  munificence  appear. 

But,  while  our  sunny  moments  fly, 

Unsullied  by  a  shade  of  care, 
For  those,  like  us  bereft,  we  sigh, 

And  wish  they,  too,  our  joys  might  share. 

i*43 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  *19 

Song  of  the  Greek  Exile 

Farewell,  guitar!  this  faltering  hand 
Will  touch  thy  trembling  chords  no  more. 

Far  from  my  lovely,  native  land, 
I  languish  on  a  distant  shore; 

From  Grecia's  isle  forever  torn, 
A  captive  exile,  now  I  mourn. 

Farewell,  guitar!  another  hand 
Will  wake  thy  trembling  chords  for  me, 

And  in  my  own  dear  native  land 
Recall  my  favorite  melody: 

The  land  where  minstrels  poured  their  lays, 
Where  dwelt  the  bard  of  by-gone  days. 

Oh,  might  I  find  at  last  a  grave 

In  thee,  my  happy,  happy  isle! 
The  mournful  cypress  o'er  me  wave, 

And  wild  flowers  sadly  on  me  smile; 
There,  bosom  friends,  and  kindred  dear 

Would  to  my  memory  drop  a  tear. 
1843 

Reflections  on  the  Closing  Yeae 

Twill  soon  be  gone— the  wailing  night  wind  drear 
Chants  her  sad  requiem  to  the  closing  year: 
Twill  soon  be  gone— the  brilliant  starry  night 
In  silent  eloquence  repeats  the  strain. 


220  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

'Twill  soon  be  gone — the  placid  queen  of  night 
O'er  its  departure  sheds  her  mellow  light. 
Oh,  time,  what  art  thou  ?  who  thy  course  may  stay  ? 
Not  ours  the  past  nor  future,  but  today. 

Hark!  hark!  the  distant  peal  of  yonder  bell, 
In  measured  tones  the  midnight  hour  doth  tell. 
Old  year,  thy  reign  is  past;  we  bid  adieu 
To  thee,  and  usher  in  the  new. 

I'll  to  my  couch,  and  dream  the  hours  away, 
'Till  fair  Aurora  opes  the  gates  of  day: 
But  ere  I  go,  dear  friends,  on  you  I  call: 
"A  happy  new  year"  is  my  wish  to  all. 
1843 

To  Rusticus 
(In  answer  to  the  lines  "My  Heart  is  Weary") 

Oh,  why  forgotten  wouldst  thou  sleep 

Beneath  some  lonely  tree? 
Has  this  bright  world,  so  beautiful, 

No  sunny  spots  for  thee  ? 
Thou  sayest  thy  heart  is  weary, — 

Hath  sorrow  swept  its  strings? 
Its  every  tone  of  buried  hopes 

Some  sad  remembrance  brings  ? 

Go  where  the  gushing  fountain 
Leaps  from  the  rock-bound  hill; 

And  let  its  quiet  murmurs 
Thy  heart's  wild  throbbing  still; 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  *21 


Scorn  not  the  humble  daisy, 

Nor  lily's  drooping  form; 
For,  trust  me,  thou  wilt  never  find 

A  rose  without  a  thorn! 
August,  1847 

Time  Chronicled  in  a  Skull 

A  skull  was  once  placed  in  my  hand  and  I  placed 
a  watch  inside  it.  The  thoughts  that  came  to  me  then 
were  afterwards  written  out  in  a  poem. 

Why  should  I  fear  it  ?    Once  the  pulse  of  life 

Throbbed  in  these  temples,  pale  and  bloodless  now. 

Here  reason  sat  enthroned,  its  empire  held 

O'er  infant  thought  and  thought  to  action  grown: 

A  flashing  eye  in  varying  glances  told 

The  secret  workings  of  immortal  mind. 

The  vital  spark  hath  fled,  and  hope,  and  love, 

And  hatred, — all  are  buried  in  the  dust, 

Forgotten,  like  the  cold  and  senseless  clay 

That  lies  before  me:  such  is  hunan  life. 

Mortals,  behold  and  read  your  destiny! 

Faithful  chronometer,  which  now  I  place 

Within  this  cavity  with  faltering  hand, 

Tell  me  how  swift  the  passing  n  onents  fly! 

I  hear  thy  voice  and  tremble  as  I  hear, 

For  tine  and  death  are  blended — awful  thought. 

Death  claims  its  \ictim.     Time,  that  once  was  his, 

Bearing  him  onward  with  resistless  power, 

Must  in  the  vast  eternity  be  lost. 

Eternity,  duration  infinite! 


£2ft  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Ages  on  ages  roll  unnumbered  there; 
From  star  to  star  the  soul  enraptured  flies, 
Drinking  new  beauties,  transports  ever  new, 
Casting  its  crown  of  glory  at  His  feet, 
Whose  word  from  chaos  to  existence  called 
A  universe;  whose  hand  omnipotent 
Controls  the  storms  that  wake  the  boundless  deep, 
"And  guides  the  planet  in  its  wild  career." 
1848 

He  Goes  Before  You 

(Matthew  xxvii:  7;  Middle  Clause) 
O  troubled  ones,  why  thus  repine, 
And  yield  to  care  and  sorrow  ? 
Though  clouds  may  veil  your  sky  today, 
The  sun  will  shine  tomorrow. 

Chorus: 

He  lives  again,  your  Saviour  lives; 
His  banner  still  is  o'er  you, 
Then  trust  the  words  the  angel  said: 
Behold  He  goes  before  you! 

He  goes  before  to  cheer  the  path 
Your  weary  feet  are  treading; 
And  all  along,  His  gentle  hand 
A  feast  of  love  is  spreading. 

O  troubled  ones,  be  not  afraid; 
Press  on  with  firm  endeavor 
To  meet  with  joy  your  risen  Lord, 
And  dwell  with  Him  forever. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  2SS 

An  Address  to  Henry  Clay 

On  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  the  New  York  In- 
stitution for  the  Blind. 

It  comes,  it  swells,  it  breaks  upon  the  ear; 

Millions  have  caught  the  spirit-stirring  sound. 

And  we  with  joy,  with  transport  uncontrolled. 

Would  in  the  chorus  of  our  city  join: 

Thou  noblest  of  the  noble,  welcome  here! 

Noble  in  high  born  deeds  of  spotless  fame, — 

Yes,  in  behalf  of  those  who  o'er  us  watch, 

We  bid  thee  welcome  to  this  lovely  spot, 

Our  peaceful  home,  where  kindred  souls  are  knit 

In  one  sweet  bond  of  friendship  unalloyed. 

It  is  not  ours  thy  lineaments  to  trace, 

The  intellectual  brow,  the  flashing  eye. 

Whose  glance  the  language  of  the  soul  portrays. 

But  fancy's  busy  hand  the  picture  draws, 

And  with  a  smile,  the  glowing  sketch  presents 

To  hearts  that  with  anticipation  throb. 

How  have  we  longed  to  meet  thee,  thou  whose  voice, 

In  eloquence  resistless,  like  a  spell, 

Holds  e'en  a  nation  captive  to  its  powers! 

Well  may  Columbia  of  her  son  be  proud. 

Firm  as  a  rock,  amid  conflicting  storms, 

Thou  by  her  side  hast  ever  fearless  stood, 

With  truth  thy  motto,  principle  thy  guide. 

And  thou  canst  feel  as  rich  a  gem  is  thine, 

As  ever  graced  the  loftiest  monarch's  brow: 

A  nation'^  honor  and  a  nation's  love. 


224  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

O'er  Ashland  veiled  in  winters  cheerless  night, 
Ere  long  will  steal  the  gentle  breath  of  spring; 
And  thou  wilt  sit  among  the  shades  embowered 
Of  ancient  trees,  whose  giant  branches  wave 
Around  the  quiet  home  thou  lovest  so  dear. 
The  winding  streamlet  on  whose  pearly  breast 
The  crescent  moon  reflects  her  silver  light, 
Will  murmur  on;  and  when  the  blushing  morn 
Calls  nature  from  a  soft  and  dewy  sleep 
The  birds  will  glad  thee  with  their  gushing  songs, 
So  sweetly  caroled  to  the  new-born  day. 
Once  more,  illustrious  statesman,  welcome  here! 
Language  can  do  no  more,  these  trembling  lips 
To  our  emotions  utterance  cannot  give. 
Yet  we  would  ask,  ere  thou  from  us  depart, 
Oh,  let  thine  accents  greet  each  anxious  ear. 
Speak,  we  entreat  thee,  but  one  parting  word, 
That  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  heart 
May  live  the  memory  of  its  thrilling  tones, 
When  he  who  uttered  them  is  far  away. 
1848 

Influenza 

(A  play  on  the  names  of  the  Managers) 

Now  list  ye,  dear  friends,  I've  a  story  to  tell, 
If  I  mistake  not,  'twill  please  you  right  well. 
You  all  recollect  what  a  scene  of  confusion 
Once  reigned  for  a  week  in  our  good  Institution, 
For  a  being  with  manners  exceedingly  rude 
On  our  sanctum  sanctorum  had  dared  to  intrude; 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL   POEMS  22,5 

His  horrible  grip  threw  us  all  in  a  frenzy, — 

He'd  a  singular  name,  he  was  called  Influenzy. 

Though  treated  with  Clements,  yet  all  would  not  do, 

He  fearlessly  seized  on  a  Chamberlain,  too, 

Who  struggled  in  vain,  for  the  wretch  held  him  fast, 

And  catching  his  voice  cried,  "I  have  you  at  last." 

Our  Board  of  Directors  thought  best  to  convene: 

The  result  of  their  counsel  will  shortly  be  seen; 

Our  president,  Phelps,  Mr.  Allen,  and  Moore 

Declared  such  a  thing  ne'er  happened  before; 

And  the  best  they  could  do  was  at  once  to  expel  him, 

And  appoint  in  due  form  a  committee  to  tell  him; 

And  as  for  his  principles  all  must  agree 

He  ought  to  be  ruled  by  a  K-i-n-g, — 

But  said  Mr.  Shelden:  "My  friend,  Mr.  Jones, 

I  move  that  the  creature  be  pelted  with  stones." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  ether,  v. ho  thoughtfully  stood, 

"For  then  he  might  easily  fly  to  a  Wood, 

Besides,  I  consider  such  treatment  too  harsh, 

But,  Cased  in  a  Schell,  let  him  sink  in  a  Marsh, 

With  a  Cross-bee  around  him  to  torture  and  try  him, 

And  remember  that  Beers  of  all  kinds  we  deny  him, 

We  let  him  Thurst,  on,  am  I  right,  Mr.  Murray? 

Whatever  we  do,  must  be  done  in  a  hurry: 

At  times  he  is  in  a  Brown  study,  they  say; 

Now,  I  would  suggest  that  we  take  him,  to-Day.' 

"To- Day,  by  all  means,"  Mr.  Murray  replied. 

With  that  Influenzy  stood  close  by  his  side, 

But  just  as  an  arm  o'er  his  shoulder  he  put, 

By  Robertson  Welch  he  was  bound  hand  and  foot; 


226  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Unlike  to  most  captives  his  dungeon  was  spacy, 
His  judge,  I  am  told,  was  remarkable  Grade, 
His  fate,  I  am  sure,  I  have  no  wish  to  deplore  it, 
And  I've  heard  since  like  a  martyr  he  bore  it. 
1850 

The  Rover 

I  am  free  as  the  mountain  breezes  wild, 

My  sable  plumes  that  wave; 
And  my  heart  is  as  gay  as  the  heart  of  the  bird, 

And  my  spirit  is  bold  and  brave. 

My  trusty  sword,  like  a  faithful  friend, 

Hangs  glittering  at  my  side; 
And  I  steer  my  bark  with  a  daring  hand 

On  the  breast  of  the  furious  tide. 

I  love  to  look  on  the  frowning  sky, 

When  the  vivid  lightnings  flash; 
And  the  tempest  shrieks  at  the  dead  of  night, 

And  the  rolling  thunders  crash. 

I  have  stood  on  the  deck  of  my  noble  craft, 

And  watched  its  shattered  sail; 
I  have  seen  its  mast  in  pieces  dashed, 

Hang  quivering  in  the  gale. 

But  think  ye  my  cheeks  were  pale  with  dread, 

Or  my  blood  grew  cold  and  chill  ? 
There  was  music  for  me  in  the  mad  winds'  mirth, 

And  my  heart  beats  fearless  still. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  «27 

I  have  stood  in  the  battle's  foremost  ranks, 

When  the  booming  shots  came  fast; 
And  the  light  grew  dim  in  the  warrior's  eye, 

And  the  valiant  were  breathing  their  last. 

I  never  quailed  'neath  a  tyrant's  glance, 

A  slave  I  have  scorned  to  be ; 
They  have  sought  my  life,  they  have  sought  in  vain, 
I  am  free  —  I  am  free  —  I  am  free ! 
1849 

The  Captive 

The  deep-toned  bell,  from  Linder's  lofty  tower, 
With  awful  peal  proclaims  the  midnight  hour; 
And  spectres  grim,  in  robes  of  ghastly  white, 
Come  forth  to  wander  through  the  gloom  of  night. 

They  move  with  noiseless  tread,  that  ghostly  train, 
Low,  muttering  sounds  convulse  the  trembling  frame, 
The  eye  revolts  in  terror  from  the  signt, 
The  blood  congeals,  the  cheek  grows  deathly  white. 

That  ancient  tower  for  centuries  hath  stood, 
The  scene  of  barbarous  cruelty  and  blood: 
The  hapless  victim,  doomed  to  torturing  pain, 
Though  innocent,  for  mercy  pleads  in  vain, 
Within  those  hated  walls  her  accents  never  came. 

Blind  superstition  wields  its  sceptre  there, 
And  fiends  in  human  form  its  tenants  are; 
The  mangled  wretch  with  frantic  joy  they  see, 
And  laugh  exulting  at  his  agony. 


228  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Within  a  deep  and  loathesome  vault,  confined 
For  years,  a  captive,  hath  Alvero  pined; 
A  youth  of  noble  origin  is  he 
In  this  abode  of  guilt  and  misery. 

Why  is  he  doomed  a  wretched  life  to  spend? 
Oh,  death  to  him  would  be  a  welcome  friend; 
Pale  and  distorted  are  his  features  now, 
And  grief  sits  silent  on  his  lofty  brow. 

Say  what  his  crime  ?  ask  of  that  tyrant  band 
That  with  malignant  looks  around  him  stand; 
Fell  murderers,  hold!  ye  stern,  accursed  throng, 
Hold,  or  high  heaven  will  yet  avenge  his  wrong. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done!    I  see  the  quivering  dart: 
The  life-blood  gushes  from  Alvero 's  heart, 
A  deep  convulsive  sigh  his  bosom  yields, — 
Hark!  hark!  methinks  a  kindred  name  be  breathes. 

"Oh,  Evaline,  far,  far  from  thee  I  die, 
Would  thou  coulds't  hear  my  last  expiring  sigh; 
Would  that  my  head  were  pillowed  on  thy  breast, 
How  calm,  how  peaceful,  could  I  sink  to  rest. 

"If  those  who  dwell  in  yon  celestial  sphere 
Forget  not  those  they  loved  on  earth  so  dear; 
If  mortal's  sorrows  they,  perchance,  may  see, 
My  faithful  spirit  shall  thy  guardian  be." 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  229 

A  groan  —  another  —  he  has  passed  away 

To  the  bright  regions  of  eternal  day, 

The  affrighted  raven  screams  and  flaps  her  wings, 

Night's  mournful  wind  the  captive's  requiem  sings. 

The  Presumptuous  Mouse 

(Written  from  an  actual  incident) 

Dear  friends,  receive  attentively 
A  strange  account  of  Mr.  C. 
With  your  permission  I'll  relate, — 
Though  you  may  smile  at  his  sad  fate,— 
How  while  reposing  on  his  bed, 
And  airy  thoughts  flit  through  his  head, 
A  weary  mouse  house-hunting  crept, 
Close  to  the  pillow  where  he  slept; 
But  there  not  feeling  quite  at  ease, 
And  wishing  much  himself  to  please, 
He  looked  with  grave  and  thoughtful  air 
On  Mr.  C's  dishevelled  hair. 
"Ah,  here's  the  station  I  like  best," 
Said  he,  "and  here  I'll  build  my  nest. 
This  scalp  conceals  a  poet's  brain, 
So  here  till  morning  I'll  remain, 
Perhaps  the  muse  will  me  inspire, 
And  if  she  tune  her  magic  lyre, 
I'll  to  the  world  proclaim  that  we, 
That  mice,  like  men,  may  poets  be." 
Our  hero  thus  descanted  long 
On  love,  and  poesy  and  song; 


E30  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

p— m^—— ■■ — ^— — SSSSSS SSSBB — ■— — SSH — — — 

While  now  and  then  a  gentle  squeal 
His  vocal  powers  would  reveal. 
His  strain  of  eloquence  it  broke, 
For  Mr.  C,  perplexed  awoke, 
And  starting  up  —  "I  do  declare 
There's  something  scraping  in  my  hair; 
A  light;  a  light;  what  shall  I  do?" 
At  this  the  mouse,  alarmed,  withdrew; 
And  had  he  not,  I'm  certain,  death 
Had  stopped,  ere  long,  his  little  breath. 


1850 


To  a  Friend 

(Cynthia  Bullock) 

When  wilt  thou  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  vesper  bell  is  pealing, 
And  its  distant  sounds  are  stealing 
Softly  on  the  listening  ear, 
Breathing  music  sweet  and  clear; 
When  in  prayer  on  bended  knee, 
Wilt  thou  then  remember  me? 

When  wilt  thou  think  of  me? 
When  the  twilight  fades  away, 
And  the  bird  hath  ceased  its  lay, 
And  the  quiet  evening  shade 
Lingers  in  the  silent  glade; 
When  thy  thoughts  are  wandering  free, 
Wilt  thou  then  remember  me  ? 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  231 


When  wilt  thou  think  of  me  ? 
When  thy  gentle  heart  is  crushed, 
And  its  sweetest  tones  are  hushed; 
When  upon  some  faithful  breast, 
Thou  wouldst  lull  thy  grief  to  rest, 
Then  in  whispers  soft  to  thee 
I  would  say,  remember  me. 


1850 


"Hope  on,  Hope  Ever" 

"Hope  on,  hope  ever" — Earth  is  not  so  drear, 
Nor  life  a  comfortless  and  empty  dream; 
The  darkest  clouds  that  gather  o'er  us  here, 
Are  not  the  harbingers  we  sometimes  deem; 
For  lo,  how  brilliant  the  returning  ray, 
As  one  by  one  their  shadows  pass  away! 

"Hope  on,  hope  ever" — Is  thy  heart  bereft 
Of  all  that  rendered  life  once  dear  to  thee  ? 
Amid  the  wreck  the  quenchless  spark  is  left, 
Whose  light,  though  feeble,  shall  thy  beacon  be. 
Though  death's  cold  hand  some  kindred  tie  may  sever, 
Still  let  thy  motto  be,  "Hope  on,  hope  ever." 

"Hope  on,  hope  ever" — weary  and  oppressed, 
Care's  pallid  seal  stamped  on  thy  sunken  cheek; 
There  is  a  haven  of  eternal  rest 
Whose  sacred  joy  no  mortal  tongue  can  speak; 
Look  upward  in  thine  hour  of  dark  despair: 
Hope  points  to  heaven,  and  drops  her  anchor  there. 


232  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

A  Reverie 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  waving  trees, 
Wooing  the  breath  from  a  passing  breeze, 
Gathering  daisies  pure  and  sweet, 
Far  from  the  noisy  crowded  street, 
There  would  I  sit  through  the  long,  long  day, 
Dreaming  the  golden  hours  away; 
Dreaming  of  pleasures  that  fancy  brings 
'Neath  the  silken  folds  of  her  airy  wings, 
Till  my  heart  beats  quick  and  I  feel  the  glow 
Of  friendship's  smile  in  the  long  ago. 

Down  where  the  ocean  billows  swell, 

And  over  and  over  their  story  tell, 

Down  where  the  distant  breakers  roar, 

And  I  hear  their  voice  on  the  sandy  shore, 

There  would  I  be  when  the  sunset  hue 

Fades  in  the  depths  of  the  waters  blue; 

There  would  I  roam  when  the  shadows  creep 

Over  the  face  of  the  mighty  deep, 

And  the  moon  looks  down  from  her  saintly  bower 

With  a  hallowed  light  on  that  lone,  lone  hour. 


Sabbath  Evening 

Lo,  the  setting  sun  is  stealing 
Softly  through  the  clustering  vines; 

On  the  spirit  sweet  peace  sealing, 
As  this  Sabbath  day  declines. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  233 

Lovely  spot,  oh,  sacred  hour, 

Day  of  all  our  days  the  best, 
Weakening  the  tempter's  power, 

Pointing  to  the  promised  rest. 

While  we  watch  thy  fading  splendor, 

Thou  adorner  of  the  skies, 
May  we  all  our  hearts  surrender 

To  the  God  who  bade  thee  rise. 


Our  Country 

Our  country,  unrivalled  in  beauty, 

And  splendor  that  cannot  be  told, 

How  lovely  thy  hills  and  thy  woodlands, 

Arrayed  in  the  sunlight  of  gold. 

The  eagle,  proud  king  of  the  mountain, 

Is  soaring  majestic  and  free; 

Thy  rivers  and  lakes  in  their  grandeur 

Roll  on  to  the  arms  of  the  sea. 

Our  country,  the  birthplace  of  freedom, 
The  land  where  our  forefathers  trod, 
And  sang  in  the  aisles  of  the  forest 
Their  hymns  of  thanksgiving  to  God. 
Their  bark  they  had  moored  in  the  harbor, 
No  more  on  the  ocean  to  roam; 
And  there  in  the  wilds  of  New  England 
They  founded  a  country  and  home. 


«34  MEMORIES  OP  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Our  country,  with  ardent  devotion, 

In  God  may  thy  children  abide; 

In  him  be  the  strength  of  the  nation, 

His  laws  and  His  counsel  to  guide. 

Our  banner  —  that  time  honored  banner  — 

That  floats  in  the  ocean's  bright  foam, 

God  keep  it  unsullied  forever, 

Our  standard,  our  union,  our  home. 

A  Tribute 
(To  the  memory  of  our  dead  heroes) 

To  arms!  to  arms!    We  remember  well 

That  wild,  tumultuous  cry, 
When  our  country  rang  with  clash  and  clang 

Of  swords  that  were  lifted  high; 
For  the  king  of  war,  on  his  fiery  steed, 

Shot  flame  from  his  flashing  eye. 

The  eagle  screamed  as  he  flapped  his  wings, 

And  soared  to  his  rock-girt  nest, 
And  the  ocean  moaned,  as  he  heard  the  sound 

Far,  far  on  his  heaving  breast. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  and  defend  your  cause! 

In  the  cannon's  boom  was  heard; 
And  the  clarion  swelled  its  pealing  note, 

Till  every  soul  was  stirred; 
And  our  gallant  brave  from  the  homes  they  loved 

Went  forth  at  their  country's  word. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    POEMS  285 

i 

Side  by  side  on  the  battlefield, 

With  loyal  hearts  and  true, 
Side  by  side  they  fought  and  died 

For  the  old  red,  white  and  blue. 

And  now  we  stand  on  the  sacred  spot, 

Where  we  laid  them  down  to  sleep; 
And  we  touch  the  chords  of  memory's  harp, 

And  linger  awhile  to  weep. 
With  grateful  hearts  and  reverent  lips, 

We  tell  of  their  deeds  of  fame; 
And  cover  them  over  with  fair  young  flowers 

That  whisper  their  honored  name. 

rheir  work  is  done;  and  from  year  to  year 

We  hallow  their  graves  anew; 
Their  work  is  done,  and  our  banner  bright 

Unfurled  to  the  breeze  we  view; 
And  we  look  with  pride  on  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 

That  were  saved  by  the  Boys  in  Blue. 

What  the  Old  Year  Saw 

The  moon  looked  down  from  a  cloudless  sky, 

On  the  white  and  crispy  snow; 

And  one  by  one  the  hours  went  by, 

While  I  heard  the  wild  winds  blow. 

I  thought  of  those  who  were  toiling  hard, 

Their  burden  of  life  to  bear; 

I  thought  of  the  homes  that  were  dark  and  cold, 

And  the  little  ones  shivering  there; 


*M  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Then  I  looked  again  at  the  queenly  moon, 
As  she  walked  in  her  path  of  light; 
And  I  prayed  from  the  depths  of  my  inmost  soul, 
"Lord,  pity  the  poor  tonight." 
While  thus  I  mused  by  myself  alone, 
Watching  the  embers  glow, 
A  form  stole  in;  he  was  bent  with  age, 
And  his  locks  were  white  as  snow. 

"You  wonder,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  weak; 
"You  wonder  to  find  me  here. 

But  much  have  I  seen  that  I  fain  would  tell, 

And  then  I  must  bid  you  a  long  farewell 

For  I  am  the  old,  old  year. 

Yes,  much  have  I  seen  of  good  and  ill, 

Of  pleasure  and  sorrow,  too. 

Take  heed  to  my  counsel  where'er  you  go. 

"Be  kind  to  the  erring  and  soothe  their  woe, 
As  God  has  been  kind  to  you= 
I  saw  a  youth  in  an  evil  hour 
Beguiled  by  the  tempting  bowl; 
And  he  deeply  drank  of  its  baneful  dregs, 
That  burned  to  his  very  soul; 
And  I  saw  him  won  by  a  loving  word: 
Reclaimed  from  his  reckless  ways; 

"And  only  this  morning  I  heard  him  say 
'To  Jesus  be  all  his  praise': 
*I  saw  a  wife  by  her  husband's  side, 
And  her  hand  he  warmly  pressed; 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  237 

I  heard  her  singing  a  cradle  song, 

And  hushing  her  babe  to  rest. 

But  the  demon  entered  their  peaceful  home, 

And  clouded  her  fair  young  brow, 

"For  he,  who  had  promised  her  lot  to  bless, 
Had  made  it  a  thorny  wilderness, 
Forgetting  his  marriage  vow. 
The  demon  entered  that  peaceful  home, 
And  stalked  with  remorseless  tread; 
But  she  bore  it  all  with  woman's  trust 
Till  her  last,  last  hope  had  fled, — 
Till  the  child  of  her  love,  by  an  angel  borne, 

"Went  home  where  no  tears  are  shed. 
The  father  gazed  on  the  pale,  sweet  face 
Of  the  babe,  so  still  and  fair; 
In  its  little  hand  was  an  opening  bud: 
Dear  mamma  had  placed  it  there. 
He  stood  and  gazed  on  its  pale,  sweet  face, 
And  his  noble  nature  stirred. 
And  the  man  of  God  from  a  mission  came 

"To  read  from  the  Holy  Word. 
He  read  of  the  tears  the  Saviour  shed 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept; 
A  chord  was  touched  in  the  father's  breast, 
And  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept. 
'Twas  a  touching  scene,  aye,  a  touching  scene, 
I  remembered  it  many  a  day, 
How  he  knelt  him  down  by  his  stricken  wife, 


238  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

"And  asked  the  goodly  man  to  pray: 
But  still  he  knelt  with  a  firm  resolve 
And  promised  then  and  there 
By  the  grace  of  G  d  and  the  pastor's  prayer 
He  never  would  drink  again. 
I  have  seen  the  altars  with  mourners  filled, 
And  they  gave  their  hearts  to  God: 
I  have  seen  them  look  with  a  shudder,  back 

"To  the  path  they  once  had  trod. 
And  many  a  picture  bright  I've  seen 
At  merry  Christmas  time; 
When  the  bells  rang  out,  '  Good  will  to  men,' 
With  clear  and  silver  chime. 
Good  will  to  men  through  the  Saviour's  birth — 
Oh,  predous  truth  sublime. 
And  now  I  have  come  to  my  closing  hour, 

"My  task  is  well  nigh  done; 
And  1880  must  soon  give  place  to  1881. 
Faster  and  faster  the  moments  bring 
The  end  of  my  brief  career; 
I  shall  soon  be  gone,  and  a  happy  song 
Will  welcome  the  new-born  year. 
'Do  good,  do  good,  for  the  Master's  sake* 
Is  the  message  I  leave  to  all; 

"Be  sure  you  are  ready  whene'er  he  comes, 
To  answer  the  Master's  call." 
And  the  old  year  passed  from  my  wondering  eyes 
Through  the  veil  of  light  serene; 
And  a  record  he  bore  to  eternity's  shore 
Of  all  that  he  had  heard  and  seen. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  2S9 

For  the  Dedication  of  a  Church 

Eternal  God  of  ages, 
And  source  of  boundless  love, 
We  praise  Thee  for  Thy  mercies, 
That  crown  us  from  above. 
Our  pleasant  task  completed 
With  joyful  eyes  we  see; 
And  now  our  earthly  temple 
We  consecrate  to  Thee. 

Accept  our  cheerful  offering, 
And  may  this  holy  day, 
Be  one  whose  tender  memory 
Will  never  fade  away. 
O,  nil  us  with  Thy  Spirit, 
And  may  our  faith  behold 
The  glory-cloud  descending, 
And  resting,  as  of  old. 

Receive  our  cheerful  offering 
From  loyal  hearts  and  true, 
Who  labored,  prayed  and  trusted, 
Although  in  number  few. 
Thy  promise  gave  us  courage; 
And  now  with  joy  we  see 
Our  work  begun,  continued, 
And  ended,  Lord,  in  Thee. 


240  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

To  Our  Mother  on  Her  Eighty-ninth  Birthday 

Tender  thoughts  their  spell  are  weaving, 

Hallowed  memories  round  us  twine, 
*Tis  the  birthday  of  our  mother, 

And  her  years  are  eighty-nine ; 
Years  that  fraught  with  many  changes 

Came  and  went  as  flies  a  dream, 
Came  and  went  as  speeds  an  arrow, 

Or  a  meteor's  flashing  beam. 
But  her  eye  retains  a  lustre, 

And  her  face  a  genial  glow, 
That  illumines  every  feature, 

With  the  smile  of  long  ago; 
And  we  fancy  that  the  autumn 

Of  her  life  is  waning  now, 
And  forget  the  winter's  snowflakes, 

Resting  gently  on  her  brow. 
Mother's  birthday,  and  her  children 

Three  in  number,  all  are  here, 
From  the  sunny  past  recalling 

Words  of  love  we  still  revere. 
Four  grandchildren  grace  our  circle, 

Breathing  wishes  kind  and  true, 
Mother's  joy  to  make  still  brighter, 

See!  her  great-grandchildren,  too. 
But  our  hearts  must  pause  a  moment 

O'er  the  missing  ones  to  mourn: 
Where  are  William,  Lee  and  Byron, 

Will  those  dear  ones  ne'er  return  ? 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  241 

Will  our  mother's  birthday  never 

Bring  them  back  to  us  again? 
We  shall  listen  for  their  footsteps, 

We  shall  watch  for  them  in  vain; 
But  the  voice  of  Him  who  suffered, 

And  hath  risen  from  the  tomb, 
Gives  us  comfort  in  our  sorrow, 

Whispers  hope  beyond  the  gloom. 
O,  the  bliss  of  sweet  reunion, 

When  the  last  wild  storm  is  o'er, 
When  our  souls  have  braved  the  tempest, 

And  our  bark  has  reached  the  shore. 
Mother's  birthday'.     God  reward  her 

For  her  gentle,  patient  care, 
May  He  light  the  path  before  her 

Is  the  burden  of  our  prayer; 
And  may  all  who  now  are  gathered 

On  this  happy  eve  so  bright, 
Meet  at  last  beyond  the  river, 

Where  they  never  say,  "  Good  night!  " 


1888 


Our  Beautiful  Baby  Clare 


(Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  little  niece,  Clare 
Hope,  daughter  of  Mr.  Albert  E.  and  Mrs.  Clara  O. 
Morris,  who  passed  away  July  1,  1891.) 

Silently  came  the  angel, 
A  white-robed  angel  fair, 
And  carried  away  our  darling, 
Our  beautiful  Baby  Clare, 


242  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

Carried  her  home  to  the  song-land 
To  dwell  in  its  blissful  bowers, 
And  play  with  the  infant  cherubs, 
Who  gather  its  fadeless  flowers. 

Silently  came  the  angel, 
And  whispered  in  accents  clear, 
"I  bring  you  a  balm  of  comfort 
Your  sorrowing  hearts  to  cheer; 
God  spareth  the  wife  and  mother 
In  answer  to  earnest  prayer, 
But  taketh  where  she  may  follow 
Her  beautiful  Baby  Clare." 

We  know  not  the  unseen  future, 
Tis  wisely  from  us  concealed, 
We  know  not  the  way  before  us, 
But  this  hath  our  Lord  revealed: 
Through  clouds  that  may  seem  the  darkest 
There  shineth  a  radiance  bright, 
That  maketh  each  tear  a  jewel 
To  sparkle  in  God's  own  light. 

Oh,  let  not  our  hearts  be  troubled, 
But  trust  our  Redeemer's  love, 
Who  kindly  now  is  preparing 
A  mansion  for  us  above; 
Not  here  is  our  home,  but  yonder, 
Not  here  is  our  rest,  but  there, 
Where  Jesus  our  Lord  hath  beckoned 
Our  beautiful  Baby  Clare. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  243 

Though  Papa  will  miss  his  darling, 

So  gentle  and  pure  and  sweet, 
And  " Dan-ma"  will  hear  no  longer 

The  tread  of  her  tiny  feet, 
Oh,  think  of  the  blest  reunion, 

No  parting  nor  pain  is  there, 
But  safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus 

Is  our  beautiful  Baby  Clare. 


A  Tribute 

(To  the  Memory  of  Col.  Samuel  B.  Sumner) 

It  cannot  be,  and  yet  the  low  sad  moan 

Of  midnight  winds  with  melancholy  tone 

A  requiem  chant,  that  from  his  tomb  they  bare; 

Weep  gentle  muse  for  Sumner  is  no  more. 

Yet  he  doth  live,  no  heart  so  kind  as  he, 

So  brave  and  noble  can  forgotten  be. 

Immortal  genius  and  heroic  fame, 

With  sparkling  jewels,  crown  our  poet's  name: 

True  to  the  land  of  his  ancestral  birth, 

He  sang  her  praise  in  strains  of  peerless  worth; 

Held  up  her  flag  in  battle's  dread  affray, 

Through  many  a  weary  march  and  toil-worn  day; 

And  on  the  field,  as  oft  his  comrades  tell, 

He  did  his  duty,  and  he  did  it  well. 

His  end  was  calm  as  evening's  sunset  glow, 

How  like  to  hers,  who  three  short  years  ago 

Looked  in  his  face,  then  closed  her  tranquil  eye, 


244  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

— BBS B  ■"'"      ""  ■  BBBBBBBB S3 — « 

And  in  that  look  bade  those  she  loved,  "goodbye." 
Perchance  'twas  she  who  came  on  pinions  bright 
Or  floating  downward  on  a  beam  of  light, 
Drew  him  away  to  that  sweet  realm  above, 
Life's  Great  Beyond,  its  paradise  of  love. 
O,  hearts  bereaved,  there  is  a  morn  of  peace, 
When  every  wave  and  every  storm  shall  cease; 
A  world  of  joy  without  one  throb  of  pain, 
A  home  of  bliss  where  loved  ones  meet  again, 
O  kindred  spirit,  rest;  thy  work  is  o'er, 
Thy  lips  are  mute,  thy  harp  resounds  no  more* 
Yet  will  its  echoes  come  at  hush  of  night, 
When  silver  stars  unveil  their  pensive  light, 
And  we  shall  hope  in  heaven  with  thee  to  dwell, 
Where  they  who  meet  shall  never  say  farewell. 
1891 

In  Eden's  Vale  of  Flowers 

(Affectionately  dedicated  to  my  nephew  and  niece 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Tait,  on  the  death  of  their  infant 
son,  Morris  William  Tait,  August,  1893.) 

I  know  you  are  sad  and  lonely, 

Through  tears  I  hear  you  say: 
"From  Papa,  Mamma  and  Mary 

Our  boy  has  gone  away: 
Our  boy  like  the  ivy  clinging 

Around  each  breaking  heart, 
Our  dear  little  baby,  Morris, 

'Tis  hard  from  him  to  part." 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  245 

Oh,  yes,  but  your  precious  darling 

In  yonder  home  of  rest, 
Is  "safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus," 

"Safe  on  His  gentle  breast"; 
And,  oh,  could  the  vail  be  lifted, 

That  hides  your  babe  so  fair, 
How  soon  you  would  lose  forever 

The  cross  that  now  you  bear! 

I  know  of  a  beautiful  garden, 

Where  He,  our  Lord  and  King, 
Came  down  with  the  blush  of  the  morning 

The  dew  of  love  to  bring; 
And,  seeing  a  pure  white  lily, 

Too  frail  for  earthly  bowers, 
He  carried  it  in  His  bosom 

To  Eden's  vale  of  flowers. 

Oh,  think  what  a  radiant  picture 

What  joy  its  light  portrays, 
Our  Saviour  is  tender  hearted, 

And  kind  in  all  His  ways ; 
Though  sometimes  the  paths  before  us, 

With  clouds  are  dark  and  dim, 
HTis  only  that  He  may  draw  us 

In  closer  bonds  to  Him. 

Not  so  far  is  the  silent  river, 

Not  far  is  the  golden  shore, 
Not  long  till  we  shall  gather, 

Where  parting  comes  no  more; 


146  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

There  music  from  harps  and  voices, 

Rolls  on  in  tuneful  strain, 
Where  Papa,  Mamma  and  Mary 

Will  clasp  their  boy  again. 

A  Birthday  Tribute 

Unselfish,  noble,  true  and  constant  friend, 
Take  thou  my  greeting  on  thy  birthday  morn, 
That  breaks  resplendent  from  the  orient  sky, 
With  hope  and  promise  of  a  golden  year, 
Sweet  as  the  echo  of  the  crystal  bells, 
That  sing  responsive  to  the  angels'  song; 
I  hear  the  music  of  the  sacred  nine, 
For  they  would  usher  in  this  welcome  hour, 
And  waft  this  tribute  on  the  vernal  breeze. 
One  little  sparkling  gem  today  I  bring, 
A  gem  whose  lustre  will  forever  shine, 
I  found  it  in  an  urn  by  friendship  sealed, 
And  closely  guarded  by  her  watchful  eye; 
Her  gift  and  mine  to  crown  thy  natal  morn; 
Accept  it  then ,  and  may  it  breathe  for  thee 
In  words  I  would  not  have  the  power  to  speak 
What  thou  hast  been  and  what  thou  art  to  me. 

A  Reverie 

The  winds  a  carol  murmur,  soft  and  low, 
While  silver  stars,  that  gem  the  arch  of  nighty 
In  answering  tones,  repeat  the  choral  strain: 
Sleep  on,  O  minstrel,  calm  be  thy  repose, 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  247 

— ^ — — ^ »^— ■ — ■■■ ■■■■■■ i— —— — 

Pure  as  thy  spirit,  guileless  as  thy  heart; 
May  golden  dreams  of  past  and  future  years, 
Of  deeds  accomplished,  laurels  nobly  won, 
Beguile  thy  slumber  with  their  magic  power, 
And  bear  thee  onward  to  the  classic  vales, 
Where  thou  in  thought  hast  wandered  o'er  and  o'er, 
Hast  laved  thy  brow  in  sweet  Arcadian  springs, 
And  caught  the  music  of  Apollo's  lyre: 
Sleep  on,  O  minstrel,  angels  guard  thy  rest, 
Till  in  her  chariot  drawn  by  flaming  steeds, 
Comes  the  fair  goddess  of  the  blushing  morn, 
And  in  her  beauty  smiling  bids  thee  wake. 
1903 

Night  and  Morning 

Lo,  the  vesper  hour  hath  flown, 

Voices  of  the  dewy  night 

Hold  me  captive  with  delight 
To  their  mystic  tone. 

Strangely  wild,  yet  passing  sweet, 
Falls  their  music  on  my  ear, 
While  a  fountain  soft  and  clear 

Murmurs  at  my  feet. 

Ah,  too  soon  the  moments  fly, 
Now  the  bird  his  nest  forsakes 
And  the  rosy  morning  breaks 
From  the  Orient  sky. 
X903 


248  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

On  the  Dedication  of  a  Church  Organ 
Thou  in  whose  chords  the  soul  of  music  dwells, 
Tuned  by  a  master  hand,  awake,  awake, 
And  in  these  temple  walls  where  thou  dost  stand, 
Peal  forth  thy  first  glad  song  of  joyful  praise 
To  Him  the  great  Creator  of  us  all, 
The  Mighty  Lord,  the  Universal  King. 

Thou  art  our  offering,  unto  Him  alone 
We  dedicate  thee  on  this  Sabbath  day, 
And  while  we  listen  to  thy  thrilling  tones, 
Now  soft,  now  swelling  with  ecstatic  bliss, 
Oh,  may  our  voices  blend  with  one  accord, 
And  faith  directed  may  our  spirits  rise; 
Beyond  the  clouds  and  look  within  the  vail. 

Accept,  O  gracious  Lord,  the  gift  we  bring, 
Receive  the  tribute  of  our  grateful  love, 
And  when,  as  now,  we  gather  in  Thy  name, 
Behold  this  organ  for  Thy  worship  made; 
Behold  the  singers,  and  their  song  inspire. 
Here,  may  the  smile  of  gentle  peace  abide, 
And  here  the  brightness  of  Thy  glory  shine. 
1005 

A  Pleasant  Reminiscence 

(School  for  the  Blind ,Wethersfield  Ave.,  Hartford,Conn.) 
There's  a  day  that  comes  from  the  sunny  past, 
Where  it  lives  in  friendship's  bowers; 
And  it  whispers  soft  of  a  hallowed  scene 
In  the  early  spring  when  the  hills  were  green 
And  we  met  for  a  few  brief  hours. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  149 


'Tis  a  day  long  past,  but  remembered  yet 
When  I  stood  in  your  home  so  dear; 
I  can  see  you  all  as  I  saw  you  then, 
I  can  feel  the  clasp  of  each  hand  again 
And  your  welcome  words  I  hear. 

O  friends  beloved,  'tis  a  golden  chain 
That  binds  us  heart  to  heart, 
'Twas  woven  in  light  where  angels  sing 
And  the  roses  bloom  in  eternal  spring, 
And  its  links  no  power  can  part. 

And  oft  as  I  muse  and  my  brow  is  fanned 
By  a  breath  from  the  passing  gales, 
Though  weanT  my  spirit  at  times  may  be, 
How  restful  the  pleasure  that  flows  to  me. 
While  reading  your  "Talks  and  Tales." 

To  Brother  and  Sister  Cobham 

The  noble  deed  you  both  have  done, 

O  precious  friends  of  mine, 
A  star  has  added  to  your  crown, 

That  on  your  brow  will  shine. 
You  did  it  in  the  Master's  name, 

And  yet  you  little  knew 
That  angel  eyes  were  looking  down 

From  yonder  arch  of  blue. 

Three  youthful  workers  for  the  Lord 
Were  brought  at  your  behest, 

And  in  your  sunlit  home  they  found 
The  bliss  of  tranouil  rest. 


250  MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

You  gave  them  kindly  words  of  cheer, 
And  strewed  their  path  with  flowers; 

They  heard  the  carol  of  the  birds 
In  nature 's  rural  bowers. 

They  bounded  o'er  the  rock-girt  hills 

And  paused  awhile  to  see, 
The  Allegheny,  flowing  on, 

Majestic,  grand  and  free; 
Then  turning  back  they  sought  again, 

Your  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
And  to  the  light  guitar  they  sang 

Glad  songs  of  grateful  love. 

And  when  we  gathered  round  your  board, 

With  tempting  viands  blest, 
You  did  not  leave  the  driver  out, 

But  called  him  with  the  rest; 
He  took  his  place,  the  moments  passed 

In  social  converse  sweet; 
We  ate  and  drank,  and  praised  the  Lord 

For  such  a  dear  retreat. 

But  then  the  evening  time  drew  near, 

We  saw  the  shades  descend, 
And  with  a  sigh  of  fond  regret, 

We  parted,  friend  with  friend ; 
The  light  guitar,  the  choral  song. 

Will  in  our  memory  dwell, 
Till  we,  in  glory,  clasp  our  hands, 

No  more  to  say  farewell. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  251 


O  precious  friends,  your  noble  deeds 

Will  never,  never  die, 
Behold  and  read  in  gilded  lines 

Their  message  in  the  sky. 
The  Lord  is  with  you,  fear  ye  not, 

Though  pilgrims  here  ye  roam, 
He'll  bring  you  safe  where  those  you  love 

Will  sing  your  Welcome  Home. 


1905 


Chautauquan  Greeting 
(Dedicated  to  the  Round  Table,  August  10,  1906) 

In  these  classic  wilds  of  beauty, 

In  our  summer  land  so  dear, 
Crowned  with  blessings  rich  and  boundless 

We  have  gathered  year  by  year. 

From  the  village  and  the  hamlet, 

From  the  city's  crowded  streets, 
In  our  summer  home  so  tranquil, 

We  are  spared  again  to  meet. 

Hail,  Chautauquan  sons  and  daughters, 

Swell  the  chorus;  let  it  break 
O'er  the  forest  and  the  mountain, 

O'er  the  waves  of  Tully  Lake. 

Like  Minerva,  rich  in  wisdom, 
Dropping  words  like  gentle  dew, 

Still  our  President  is  with  us, 
And  her  magic  wand  we  view. 


MEMORIES  OF  EIGHTY  YEARS 

While  our  noble,  kind  director, 

Warmly  as  in  years  before, 
Gives  to  each  a  cordial  welcome 

To  Assembly  Park  once  more. 

Silver  lake  and  giant  forest 

Many  hours  like  this  recall, 
While  they  sing  with  tuneful  measure: 

Happy  greetings  one  and  all! 

Are  we   11  at  our  Round  Table  ? 

All  who  gathered  years  ago? 
No,  some  tender  links  are  broken, 

And  our  tears  awhile  must  flow. 

Far  beyond  the  silent  river, 
Some  have  laid  their  burdens  down; 

They  have  heard  the  Saviour's  welcome, 
And  received  their  promised  crown. 

Now  they  bid  us  weep  no  longer, 

But  enjoy  the  pleasant  hours, 
Till  by  angels  we  are  wafted 

To  their  paradise  of  flowers. 

Hail,  Chautauquan  sons  and  daughters, 

Nature  joins  our  song  of  love; 
Happy  greeting,  happy  greeting, 

To  our  temple  in  the  grove. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEMS  25$ 


Good-night!  Good-night! 

On  the  last  night  of  the  old  year,  nineteen  hundred 
and  five,  I  attended  the  watch-night  services  at  the 
First  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  in  Bridgeport.  I 
had  previously  prepared  a  poem  entitled  "The  Message 
of  the  Old  Year"  which  I  recited  there,  and  with  this 
I,  too,  will  bid  you  all  "good-night." 

List  to  the  clanging  bells  of  time, 
Tolling,  tolling  a  low,  sad  chime, 
A  requiem  chant  o'er  the  grand  Old  Year, 
Hark!  he  is  speaking,  and  bids  us  hear: 

"Friends,  I  am  dying,  my  hours  are  few, 
This  is  the  message  I  leave  for  you, — 
Bought  with  a  price,  ye  are  not  your  own, 
Live  for  the  Master  and  Him  alone. 

"Gather  the  sheep  from  the  mountains  cold, 
Gather  them  into  the  Shepherd's  fold, 
Work  for  His  cause  till  your  work  is  done, 
Stand  by  the  cross  till  your  crown  is  won. 

"  Epworth  League,  there  are  hosts  above 
Watching  your  labor  of  zeal  and  love, 
Faithful  abide  till  your  days  are  past, 
Then  what  a  joy  will  be  yours  at  last.' 

"  I  shall  be  gone  ere  the  new-born  year 
Comes  in  its  beauty  the  world  to  cheer: 
Once  I  was  young,  and  my  flowers  were  bright, — 
Think  of  me  kindly.     Good-night!     Good-night!" 


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